


Still of the Night

by michi_thekiller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dark Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Greaser Sherlock, Horror, M/M, Manipulation, Nerd John, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Seduction, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller
Summary: 1.) Curfew must be obeyed.2.) Streets must be clear by sundown.3.) If you find yourself out after curfew, seek shelter at the home of a friend, relative, or neighbor whom you know and trust.4.) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should any unknown persons be allowed into the home after curfew.It's a vampire greaserlock kids! This work is complete :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! Long time no see! This is the story I've been telling you all about, please enjoy!!
> 
> Also, the nitty-gritty: This story will feature a manipulative relationship between a vampire (and he's old, like, a century, probably) and a teenaged boy. I guess we'll say major age difference on that front. Please mind the tags!

* * *

 

 

The police cruiser rolled slowly down St. Peter St., its black and white hood glinting in the late September sun. The children playing in the street scattered upon its approach, like pebbles in the wind. In front of No. 51 a group of girls paused their game of marbles, looking up from where they sat with their skirts spread out in the dirt.  

The siren sounded: a long, slow wail spinning out into blue September sky.  

The doors to the houses opened and whoever was home stepped out; mostly the ever-vigilant mothers in their smocks and their frocks, their housedresses speckled with daisies.

 _“Attention all citizens!”_ the loudspeaker crackled. _“This is your reminder that starting next week curfew will begin one hour earlier! Again, curfew will be one hour earlier starting next week!”_

The mothers nodded, the children as well. Then the mothers went back into their neat white houses with their pastel doors painted in springtime colors, with their green lawns and picket fences. The children resumed their play. The police car turned the corner and resumed its slow roll down onto the next street, first the siren, then the announcement:

_“Attention all citizens! This is your reminder that starting next week curfew will begin one hour earlier!”_

 

***

 

**THE RULES:**

 

  1. Curfew must be obeyed.
  2. Streets must be clear by sundown.
  3. If you find yourself out after curfew, seek shelter at the home of a friend, relative, or neighbor whom you know and trust.
  4. Under no circumstances should any unknown persons be allowed into the home after curfew.



 

***

 

“I _hate_ fall curfew,” Sally complained loudly in homeroom Monday morning.

“Shh!” Molly shushed her, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“But I do. I loathe it. And you all hate it too, don’t pretend like you don’t,” Sally continued, although she had lowered her voice a bit.

“Well, winter curfew’s far worse,” said Molly.

“Fall means that winter’s not far behind,” reasoned Sally. “It all means the same thing, being cooped up and miserable. For the next six months! Not allowed to go anywhere. Not allowed to have any _fun._ ”

“Is this because Philip got caught?”

“Geez, you know, too? Does everybody know? He made me promise not to tell anybody.”

“My mom was talking to Mrs. Morris who was talking to Mrs. Anderson. He’s in big trouble, grounded for sure,” Molly told Sally, with great authority.

“Well I think everybody’s making a big deal outta nothing. Philip said that the Sheriff said that the next time he’s caught out he’ll be spending the night in jail, just to teach him a lesson!”

“Sheriff Lestrade wouldn’t actually do that. Not _him._ ”

“But can you imagine! Just for breaking curfew! The sun was still up when he left my house, I swear.”

“He shouldn’t have been out.”

“Everybody breaks curfew sometimes. At least those of us who know how to have fun do. We can’t all be goody two-shoes like Watson over here.”

John Watson, who’d been sitting in the row directly behind them, looked up from pretending to read his history book. “Why am I being dragged into this?”

“I’m just saying,” continued Sally, “You can’t keep a buncha kids locked up at night and never give them any freedoms. It’s not natural.”

“When my mom was a little girl,” said Molly, “There was no curfew and everybody could stay out as late as they wanted. But things happened.”

“What kind of things?” asked Sally.

Molly lowered her voice. “The disappearances. You’ve heard of them.”

“No?”

“She said it happened all over the place. So many people from her town. Kids. Adults. Even the school _principal._ They just went missing. And you know what else?”

“What?”

"No bodies," Molly whispered.

"No bodies?" Sally echoed.

"No body means no murder!" Molly looked inappropriately delighted. "Not murder you can prove, anyway."

“Where did they all go?”

“Nobody knows,” said Molly.  Her voice hushed even further. “And there was this family in her neighborhood, the Smiths, who just up and vanished. All of them. The dad, the mom, their two kids, even the dog, all whisked away in the middle of the night. They didn’t say that they were going away.  Their car was still in the driveway. There was no sign of a break-in or nothing. The door was locked. But the really weird thing is that the lights in the house were still on and dinner was on the table, like they’d vanished in the middle of whatever they were doing. ”

She looked at Sally, then John. A quiet settled over the three of them like a breath being held. They all knew that the Moran boy had gone missing just over a month ago, and that was a fact.

“Anyway,” said Molly, “I always keep Toby in at night. “

The homeroom bell rang, its shrill chime bringing an end to conversation. They sat up straight and faced forward, paying attention as the teacher began roll call.

Everybody, as far as they knew, was there.  


***

 

They stopped searching for the missing boy after one week. The newspaper stopped reporting on it after two weeks. And every night, before and after every radio program, between _ABC Mystery Theater_ and _Night Beat,_ the special broadcast reminded all citizens - children, especially - to obey curfew, and to lock their doors at night.

Occasionally there were advertisements in the Lost and Found section of the Classifieds for missing pets, but they only ran for four, maybe five days at the most.

No one said anything about gangs. That was a big-city fear, not realistic for their little town, with its population of 8,655.

And yet John sometimes heard the revving of engines down his street. Deep into dark summer nights, while he slumbered under the blanket of August heat, the vibrations on the gravel reverberated into his dreams. From his open window the hooting and the hollering, the wild yells they trickled in, those fiendish sounds, that sometimes morphed into a howling that did not seem it could have come from the mouth of anything human.

And once, in the far off distance - _surely it was only a nightmare_ \- the sound of someone screaming.

 

***

 

One time John found a dog in the bushes behind the Stamfords’ backyard.

He and Mike had been playing catch, and the ball had gone over John’s head (a lousy throw) into the woods; all the trees and wild green things that bordered the property. It was always dark amongst the trees, no matter the time of day. John ventured in like a jungle explorer, wary of dangers (such as poison ivy).

He found the dog underneath the leafy shadows of some ferns. Being a boy of strong constitution, he did not yell or scream, although he did let out a singular gasp. He could taste the forest air in his mouth, the loamy scent of earth and rich pine.

The poor animal had been split open from throat to belly.  Like how Mike’s dad had shown them how to gut a fish. Its skin was flayed open, and one could see the layers: the fur, the yellow fat, the meat, the white bone, and all the soft, slick organs spilling out from inside. Red and pink and pale yellow, glistening and moist and horrible. But there was no blood. 

It looked like a picture in a book, so clean and bloodless, or like an anatomy model one might see in a museum. John almost wanted to touch it, to reach out with his hands and feel the intestines, the stomach, the lungs, the--

The heart was missing.   

And the woods, they were so quiet. John suddenly noticed because he himself had gone quiet, not moving, not even daring to breathe. There was no hum of insects, no birdsong from the trees above, no flies to buzz around the carcass. Only the whisper of the wind in the trees.

Sometimes John still dreamt about it, being back in the heart of those silent, dark woods, the whispering trees and that dog, no heart, no blood, and _why?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

> The colony of Roanoke, located in what is now known as Dare County, North Carolina, was one of the first settlements in the New World. On August 17, 1585, Sir Richard Grenville left Sir Ralph Lane and 107 men to establish a colony on the north end of Roanoke Island, promising to return the next April with more men and more supplies. The group built a small fort on the island.
> 
>  
> 
> April 1586 passed, and there was no sign of Grenville’s relief fleet. In 1587, Sir Walter Raleigh dispatched a  new group of 115 colonists to establish a colony in Chesapeake Bay. They were ordered to travel to Roanoke to check on the settlers, but when they arrived on July 22, 1587, they found nothing except a single human skeleton that may have been the remains of one of the original men.
> 
>  
> 
> When they could find no sign of the living, the fleet's commander Simon Fernandez refused to let the colonists return to the ships. Instead he insisted that they establish the new colony on Roanoke. Even now, his motives remain unclear.
> 
>  

The lights flickered in the library, indicating that it was due to close soon. John looked up from where he sat, cross-legged on the carpet between the aisles of books, deep into the stacks. There was no sign of the librarian. He had a few more minutes, he reasoned, he could at least finish the story.

 

 

> The colonists began repairing the houses that the first failed expedition had built, as well as building new homes. However, they were low on food, tools and supplies, and fearful of attack from natives. And so they persuaded Governor John White to return to England to explain their desperate situation and to seek help.
> 
> On August 27, 1587 Governor John White sailed from the newly-founded English colony on Roanoke Island. He left behind the first settlement in the new English colony of Virginia, consisting of eighty-nine men, seventeen women, and eleven children. One of those children was his own granddaughter, the first English child to be born in the New World — Virginia Dare. None of these colonists were ever seen by English eyes again.
> 
>  
> 
> Upon Governor’s White return three years later, it was no longer a colony, but rather a ghost town. The village was completely deserted, stripped of its people. The buildings had collapsed, and “the houses taken downe.” He found the letters CRO carved on a tree near the water’s edge. The settlement had been enclosed by a palisade of tall, sharp wooden stakes to make a fort, as if to keep out possible intruders, or to protect from enemy attack. But at the right side of the entrance, the word CROATOAN had been carved on a post “without any cross or signe of distress” near it. White and his men continued to search but never found a trace of the colony.
> 
>  
> 
> To this day no one knows what happened to the “Lost Colony” of Roanoke...it was as if the entire settlement had simply vanished into thin air.

 

John shivered. Momma didn’t like him reading scary stories at home. She always said, “It’s not healthy to fill your head up with that nonsense. It’ll give you nightmares.”  And so he spent many an afternoon at the library, glutting himself on horror novels, ghost stories, tales of the morbid and gruesome and inhumane. He was just about to turn the page, for the next “ _True Story of Terror!”_ when the last section of the library suddenly went dark.

Section after section of the library darkened - starting with _Fiction X-Z_ , the lights turning off from the back, moving to the front, the darkness moving forward.  John felt a spike of panic stab through his heart as he lept to his feet, snatching up his bookbag with one hand. The library was closing now. That meant curfew was soon.

He ran out of the library just in time, apologizing to the librarian who was about to shut the doors on him - he’d almost been trapped in for the night, as he’d been sitting hidden in the stacks.

The sunny afternoon had become overcast evening, the sky now blue-gray and swathed with clouds. Further down, the edge of the sky was ablaze with orange light, the bottoms of the clouds streaked with red. The sun was already touching the horizon. Soon it would dip below; it would only be a matter of minutes. 

John had to get home, and fast.

He hopped onto his bike and started pedaling.

The sun was at his back, warming him with its red-orange light.   His shadow stretched before him, growing longer and more distorted as the sun dipped lower and lower. He pedaled as fast as he could, as if he were chasing his shadow, the two of them trying to escape the setting sun. Gravel and sand crunched underneath his tires.

The roads seemed longer than he remembered, and hillier somehow, but he pumped his legs, refusing to slow down. He could not slow down.  His heart raced, and sweat beaded upon his brow and at the back of his neck, and breath entered his lungs in quick huffs of cooling autumn air.

But he was going to make it. He could not tell the exact moment the sun went under but he knew that he was going to make it. He had the yellowing light of twilight still, maybe 20 minutes more till curfew, and only ten more minutes to home safe home.

Until the gears of his bike seemed to catch, and so John pushed down hard, and then there was the metallic crack of the chain, the sudden loss of control and John was pitched forward, dumped to the ground, dumping his bike.

“ _Dammit!”_ John swore (and it was the most he’d ever sworn - he was raised better than that). He’d landed hard on the pavement, and his body thudded with pain. His palms were skinned and bleeding, with little pebbly bits he had to pick out. His trousers felt sticky and damp at his knees, scratched up gray and dusty on the outside, sore enough to let him know that he’d skinned both knees as well.   

His bike chain had snapped. The bike lay useless on the ground, like a downed animal, with its wheels hissing, still spinning in helpless rotations.

He looked up. The sun was long gone, and fiery red seeped up the darkening sky, as if the sun had bled out as it died.

“ _God damn it_ ,” John whispered, all under his breath, as if he said it too loudly he might still get in trouble.

Mike lived close enough to the library. John could probably make it there before curfew. Maybe. But that was in the opposite direction.

He thought of all the ground he had already covered. It would take him just as long to turn back, at this point, as it would to make it home.  No, he had to keep going. He would make it home.

There was no time for hesitation. He forced himself back up, bookbag on his shoulder, pulling his bicycle back up onto its wheels despite the stinging in his palms and the soreness in his knees, and the pain in his leg that made him limp, just a little.

The trees formed a black latticework against the blood red sky. And then the red calmed into a rosy pink, which gave way to a deep blue. The trees grew darker, and the orange light subsided into cool blue tones.

The streetlamps slowly glowed on. The trees that bordered the quiet road seemed taller as the sky grew darker, lengthening with the shadows, blocking out light. The darkness was encroaching all around him.  

The wind rustled through the trees, the branches and leaves whispering surreptitiously. John shivered. The warmth of the day had been leeched out by the darkness, leaving only a chill in the air. He was aware of the sting in his lungs from his panting, the squeak of the wheels of his bike, the tiny metallic jingle of his bike chain dragging along the pavement. The sound of his own breath. The wetness of a small trickle of blood down his shin.

Something skittered behind him. John turned, suddenly, but there was nothing there. It must have only been the dry, fallen leaves scratching across the pavement.

The world continued to change its face in the fading light, the shadows shifting.  John had never been outside this late before, had only ever seen his own street growing dark from the windows of his house. The road he’d biked so many times before suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Was he lost?  Had he been down this street before? Maybe he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, although, logically, he knew he’d only gone straight.

It was properly dark now, and yet, he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to home. He quickened his step. He didn’t even wince at the chafing of his trousers against his skinned knees, the constant motion keeping the wounds open. He stayed close to the side of the road, following the yellow light of the streetlamps: briefly illuminated, as if by spotlight, as he passed underneath, casting a long shadow out onto the pavement of himself and his bike, and then back into the darkness.

It was definitely past curfew by now. _They all went missing,_ Molly had said. _They just vanished. Nobody knows what happened to them._

The little voice in his head said, _people out past curfew don’t always make it home._

Something moved, just out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around, but there was nothing there. What was that unknown shape hunched over, just up the street? His heart squeezed, he held his breath. Why, it was only a mailbox. Trick of the dark. His mind was getting fanciful. Just like Momma said, all those tales of terror had filled up his head with ghosts and ghouls, and now they’d all come crawling out.

And the prickling fear that crawled up the back of his neck, the sensation of being watched? That had to be his imagination.

There was  a sudden growl of an engine rumbling to life. John froze. It came from somewhere down the street, he thought, hidden in the void between the streetlamps. He hadn’t even registered that there was a car there. Who could possibly be in it? The roads had been empty since the sun had set. Everybody was meant to be at home. The gasoline fumes of the engine wafted through the air, mixing in with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves,  that wood-burning smell of autumn.  The tires crunched up gravel as it approached. Two yellow beams pierced through the darkness, as the car rolled towards him, with its glowing golden eyes.

As if it had been only waiting for him to come near.

His first instinct was to run. But there was no way to outrun a car, that was silly. Not even if he dropped his bag and abandoned his bike.  And where would he go? Into the woods, that dark unknown? Or to a stranger’s house, banging on the door - a stranger himself? Why, they’d call the police! Even if they didn’t, they would not let him in, that was against the rules.

In the end he could not will his feet to move. They seemed heavy, stuck to the pavement, with the trees whispering around him and those headlights shining bright like yellow moons growing ever closer and surely it would just drive on by, surely it had not come for him -

 

The car rolled to a stop just beside him. John held his breath. It was a sleek blue Chevrolet with silver rims and silver trim, a rumbling creature of an engine.  But all of the windows were tinted dark, so that he could not see who was inside, what monster might lay in wait for him there. Maybe this was what had always happened, maybe there was always a car with black windows before they vanished into the night, and John H. Watson would become another name that was in the paper for two weeks only and then forgotten, with only Momma and Harry to left to remember and mourn-  

The driver’s window rolled down.

Behind the wheel sat a young man - _striking_ was the first word that came to mind, _cool_ being the next -  with styled dark hair and a leather jacket and pale skin that, in the darkness, seemed to be painted in the soft blue tones of twilight.

“Hey,” he said, with an easy smile, and leaned out the window. “You really shouldn’t be out past curfew.” His eyes were pale, the color of the aquamarine stone set in Momma’s favorite ring. They looked luminous in the streetlight.  

“I...um…” John began, but his tongue stopped working when the young man looked him up and down, slowly, in a way that nobody had ever looked at John before. It made him feel funny, like he was being appraised, and hot under the collar for no reason whatsoever.  John took a step back. 

The young man said, “Wanna ride?”  

John hesitated. He'd never seen this boy around before, he was certain of it. But the rules were getting fuzzy in his head.

“Look,” the young man said, quenching his thoughts. “It’s only going to get darker. It sure isn’t getting any earlier. And I bet you’re a mile, maybe two, out from home still. That’s no trouble to me at all, but you’ve already scraped up your knees and your bike’s unrideable. That’s a real long way to walk alone in the dark.”

His logic was sound. Even just a mile seemed impossible at this rate, in this growing darkness. But there were some things that were beyond logic, the uncomfortable _wrong_ feeling that seemed to buzz underneath John’s skin, the voice in his head that told him to drop everything and _run_ , and then, inexplicably, the warmth in the pit of his stomach and the rising flush to his cheeks the longer those eyes lingered upon his skin.

“It’s dangerous to be out alone at night,” the young man continued. His voice was low, almost soothing.  “Anything could happen to you in the dark, you know.”

John found himself stepping forward, almost reflexively. He wanted to be closer to that voice, those eyes. And maybe closer meant other things as well, things he had no idea of and could not name, but the growing heavy tug in the pit of his stomach promised it would be _good_ and -

“I know,” said John, and stopped where he stood, frowning. “And that’s why I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” said the young man. “And you are?”

“John Watson,” said John, who had always been taught to mind his manners. “How do you do.”

“Very well, now that we’re not strangers.” He winked at John, and John felt his face burn hot despite the chill of the night air.   

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said - and John liked the way that Sherlock said his name, although there was nothing special to it, it just had a nice, comforting sound - “Hop in. I promise I won’t bite.” He then flashed John a quicksilver smile, friendly gleam of white teeth in the darkness, and John heard himself laugh and say, “Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

“You can put your bike in the trunk,” Sherlock said.

John went around to the back of the car; the trunk had already popped open, like a waiting mouth. It was large and empty and deep, and it could easily fit something like his bicycle, or, say, a body, especially that of someone his size.

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” John replied, and put his bike into that awaiting chamber. He had to reach up on the tips of his toes to get the lid of the trunk, before slamming it closed with both hands.

Sherlock reached over and pushed the passenger door opened for him, in invitation. John could see his long white fingers tapping on the steering wheel. He slid into the plush passenger seat, sinking in a little, and tugged the heavy door closed.

It was a bigger car than his mother's, he thought, clenching fists on his lap. A sleek dark racer, carefully maintained. Sherlock was looking at him, but John quickly glanced away. His gaze was strangely hot, and if they made eye contact, John had a distinct feeling he would burn up. He wouldn’t be able to look away. Be trapped, somehow.  

He could see out into the night through the tinted windows - the streetlamps, the trees, the lonely, empty road - but nobody could see in.  

“So, where to?” asked Sherlock. John's fear ebbed, a little. Sherlock had the voice of someone who could be trusted.

“Ten Chelmsford Street.”

“Just as I thought,” said Sherlock, revving the engine a little. The car peeled away from the side of the road, vibrations thrumming under John's skin. “A little over a mile from here. If your bike was working you’d be home in no time. Lucky for you I happened upon you.”

“Thank God,” John agreed, finally peering over at his rescuer. Sherlock smiled at him, then, which made John’s spine tingle in a not-unpleasant way.

“Are you usually out this late?”

“Never!" John knew the rules. "This is the first time!”

“So, what were you doing?" Sherlock's lip quirked, and John quickly looked away again.

"Something rebellious?” Although he’d said nothing of the sort, Sherlock’s tone brought something sordid to mind, as if John had been out necking with a girl before her folks came home.

“Nothing like that,” John said, and was even a little embarrassed to admit the truth.

“...I was at the library.”

“Reading.”

Sherlock was very curious, for a stranger. “As one does at a library,” John replied, sticking a smile on his face.

“What were you reading?”

"Do _you_ read much?"

"Sure," said Sherlock. "But I was asking about you."

His heart thrummed. Sherlock was definitely probing too much, but John couldn't think of a suitable lie. He bit his lip, but the silence was unbearable. “True Tales of Terror," he said eventually, and flushed.

It sounded just as dumb aloud as his mother always said, and he fidgeted in his seat, looked down at his scabbed-over palms. His knees stung. Surely he should be nearing home by now? The ride seemed to be going on for longer than he remembered, even though the road was familiar.

“So you like horror?” Sherlock asked with genuine interest. Every answer John gave him seemed to brighten him up.

"I guess, yeah."

“Gruesome tales, and ghosts-”

“Yes, and ghoulish stuff, mysteries, true crime stories and murders, yes, all of it,” John finished for him, hurriedly. He had to fight the urge to squirm with embarrassment.

Sherlock let him sit in silence for a while, John determinedly not-squirming, as they sped through through the darkened streets. “I quite like mysteries and crime stories myself,” Sherlock finally confided, and John looked over in shock. In spite of himself, he'd wanted this cool stranger's approval, and found himself basking in this shared, secret interest.

Sherlock met his eyes, then. John felt pinned down by his gaze, strapped in, unseen heaviness pressing on his thighs, his hands, his chest. Heaviness low in his stomach. He wanted to burrow back into the seat.  Instead he smiled helplessly, and those storm-water eyes flickered down to his mouth before turning back to the road.

"You're a bit of a mystery yourself, John," he said eventually. As they passed underneath a streetlamp the light illuminated the sharp lines of his profile, his slicked hair. He was a portrait in black and white, like a star of the silver screen. And then back into the darkness. "Tell me about yourself."

“There's not much to tell…” said John. He was, after all, perfectly normal. He went to school and played sports and had a few friends that he saw after school and on the weekends.

“I'm sure that can't be true.”

John stayed quiet, unsure what to say. The shadows of the trees seemed to flutter as they passed.

“You might fool most people with that good boy act, John, but then, I'm not most people.”  Light and then shadow passed over Sherlock’s face as they drove, shifting his features, one moment a movie star, the next a phantom. Something dark and unknown. Light. Shadow.

He wasn’t like anyone John had ever met. "Oh yeah?" John said, a bit of challenge in his voice, rising to the occasion. Sherlock smirked at him.

“A good boy wouldn't stay out past curfew reading true tales of horror in the library.”

John flushed, reminded once again of his wrongdoing, the scolding he’d catch at home. “It was an accident, I never meant to stay out so late – “

“But you like reading about the mysteries, the unexplained. You're like me, John. Curious. Sometimes you can't sleep, and you lie in bed facing the window, don't you? You’ve heard the unexplained noises that happen in the night. You wonder what might be out there.”

“I…”

John turned away from Sherlock, looking out into the night. Why wasn’t he home yet? The houses looked familiar, almost exactly like the ones in his neighborhood, but for some reason he couldn’t think of the name of the street.

“Have you ever tried asking an adult about curfew before? I bet you have. And I bet they told you to wait until you were older. That you knew all that you needed to know. But that's not enough for someone like you. So you pore over books and stories, you read the hidden stories in the back of the paper, about the mysteries, the disappearances. You comb through the obituaries for anything out of the ordinary.

“But I know what really keeps you awake at night.  There are things you’ve seen. Things you’ve heard. And if you think back, far back into your memory, you remember something calling you out into the night...”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, like the eyes of a cat, pale and glittering, catching the ambient light. Shadow. Shadow. Light again.

“Where are we?” John asked, sudden and sharp. “What street are we on? I should have been home a while ago. Where are you taking me?”

“Why, we’re on Chelmsford Street of course. Don’t you recognize your own neighborhood?”  

And so they were. They were only a block or two away from his house now, and John had never been so relieved.

He had his hand on the door handle before they even came to a complete stop.

“Thanks for the ride,” he tossed out, over his shoulder, as he exited the car. His stomach was tight now, his chest too, and he was aware, once again, of how cold the night was, the air made cooler by the flush of his skin, and the pounding in his chest - loud, drumlike.

“Anytime,” said Sherlock. His voice seemed far too close.

John slammed the car door behind him, one arm clutching his bookbag. He started up the path to his house, his own house - real, familiar - bright light spilling out from every window.

He could see the outline of Harry in her bedroom, chatting on the phone. He could hear the faint strains of the record she was playing. He could see his mother moving about in the kitchen. He could hear the radio going and smell the warm waft of dinner, aromas of onions and savory meat and roast potatoes in the air. Home safe home.

  
He broke out into a sprint towards his front door, never once looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

John threw open the door and ran into the brightly-lit foyer, into the warmth and safety of home. He skidded on the carpet in his haste, spinning around to slam the door shut, both arms braced against the door, as if something might try to force the door open if he didn’t. Quickly locked it twice, both the doorknob and then the sliding lock above it, let whatever was out there stay out. And then finally he could stop, rest, slump down with his back against the door and catch his breath. 

The hallway light above him, the umbrella stand next to the door, the coat rack with his and Harry’s and Momma’s raincoats, the cream carpet with the faded flower-and-vine pattern. Everything was exactly where it should be. It was all there, just as he remembered it, it was all familiar and real. He felt as if he’d just awoken from a dream.   
  


“... _ and remember, citizens, to always, always lock your doors at night. Now, here’s Kitty Kallen with ‘In the Chapel in the Moonlight.’ “ _

He registered the radio going, then, followed by the pounding of steps on linoleum tile, the pounding steps on hardwood floor, on carpet, his mother’s voice calling, “John?” in frantic pitch as she ran through the house, towards the front door. She was sweeping down the hall, coming directly towards him, and the next moment he was wrapped up in her arms.

“Oh my god,  _ John.”  _  She was clutching him so tight that when she shook he trembled as well. 

He had never seen her like this. Trembling,  _ afraid. _ She hadn’t even been afraid of his father. 

But he was safe. He hugged her back gratefully, clinging to the solidity of her, the realness and comfort of a mother. The warmth and softness of her, the soft cotton of her dress, the smell of her hairspray and Lancome perfume. He felt small once again in her arms, reminded of the nights when he was a little boy and would awaken from some nightmare, and need Momma to hug him and shush away his fears.  _ There’s nothing to be afraid of, silly boy,  _ she would tell him, and she was so sure and strong that she made it easy to be brave. There was nothing she could not protect him from.   

She was hugging him so tight he could hardly breathe but it didn’t matter.  

“It’s all right, Momma,” John said. He could feel her fingers digging into her arms.  “I’m home now.”  

She pulled back and gave him a hard shake. “Where have you been?! I’ve half a mind to tan your hide. You’ve had your momma worried sick. This isn’t like you, John.”

“I’m sorry, Momma, I was at the library, I lost track of time -” 

“ _ Lost track of time? _ John, you know better than that! I had to call the police! Is Sheriff Lestrade outside? I heard a car pull up…” 

“Oh, I...uh, I didn’t see him.” 

“John…” Her face paled. “How exactly did you get home?” 

“I…um...”

Just then the doorbell rang, startling them both. 

“I’ll get it,” said Momma. John stepped back as she opened the door, heard her say: “Hello, Sheriff.” 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Watson,” said the Sheriff’s voice. John couldn’t see him from where he stood, but he could easily picture his grave face, the sombreness in his usually kind eyes. 

“...We can’t seem to find any sign of your boy. Do you know of any friends he might have sought shelter with, or do you have any relatives in the area, is there any place he could be?” 

“Oh my gosh, Sheriff, thank you so much for searching. He actually just got home. In fact, I thought you might have dropped him off…”

“Oh! Well isn’t that great news! That wasn’t me, no ma’am. He must have made it back by himself somehow.” 

“Why, he-” She turned around, shot John an incredulous look, then back to the door. “Listen, won’t you come in? I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”

The Sheriff stepped into the hallway, the door shutting firmly behind him. He blinked at the light and John thought that - for a second - he might have seen a familiar expression on the Sheriff’s face, one of relief, to be inside and out of the dark.

Sheriff Lestrade gave a short laugh upon seeing John there, not disguising his happy reaction as he clapped John on the shoulder. “So you’re the young man that’s been causing your mother so much grief.” He looked John up and down. “Say, how  _ did  _  you get home?” 

“Same way I always do,” John said, and because it was partially true, it was easy. “I rode my bike.”

“There’s no bike outside,” said the Sheriff, and John felt a sudden drop in his stomach, saw himself feeding his bike into the dark open maw of a sleek blue car and closing the lid on it. 

“How did you  _ really  _ get home?”

“John…” said his Momma. She turned her dark blue eyes upon him, wide with fear; her lips pursed tight. “Don’t you lie to me.” 

“I...I got a ride.” 

“A ride? From whom?” demanded his mother. 

“This boy…” John wasn’t quite sure what to say. He didn’t want his momma to worry. She carried a lot of worry in her heart.

“Some boy? You don’t know even his name? A stranger?”

“No, no, I know him-” 

“What’s his name?”

“Um...Billy,” John lied.

“Billy who?”

“Um,” John stumbled, caught in his lie, “well, I guess I dunno.”

“You just said you knew him. John!”

“I mean, I’ve seen him around school, I don’t really know him…”

“A stranger. You got into a car with a  _ stranger, _ ” his mother’s voice pitched higher and higher, as if it were threatening to break. “John! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“I know I broke the rules, Momma, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.” He didn’t even want to think about it, being back out there in the dark, all by himself and bleeding, dark woods and night sounds around him, yellow eyes creeping up the road behind him...

“There won’t be an again,” Momma snapped. “From now on, I want you to come straight home after school - no going to the library, no going over to Mike’s - nothing. Do you understand me, Mister?” 

Confinement. For once, John agreed - there was safety in it. “Yes’m.”  

His complacency made Momma narrow her eyes with suspicion. “John, I am serious. The next time you’re not home by curfew, you’ll be spending the night in a jail cell. I’ll call the Sheriff myself and have him lock you up.”

“And that would be right,” Sheriff Lestrade chimed in. “Listen to your mother, son. Breaking curfew is breaking the law. I’m sure you don’t want that sort of black mark on your permanent record.” 

“No, sir, not at all, sir,” John replied automatically; but he didn’t need such threats. They were letting him have it, but that at least felt normal, with the bright, ordinary light of his hallway, surrounded by trusted adults. What dark, unseen thing would dare come between his momma’s outrage and the Sheriff’s stern, disapproving gaze?

He had almost seen it, the other outcome, where the Sheriff had come up to the door, carrying with him the reserved sadness of one who has already accepted the inevitable.  _ I’m so sorry, Mrs. Watson. There’s been no sign of your boy.  _ By the time they thought to send out a search party it would be too late, if he didn’t turn up in the morning it was unlikely he’d ever turn up at all. After 24 hours he’d be another name in the paper, smiling school picture on the front page, then later...

“-a stranger! John, are you listening to me?”

“Hm? Y-yeah,” said John. “Sorry, Momma?” 

She had stopped talking. Instead she was looking at him, frowning, and John could not help looking at that deep crease of worry in her brow, that he hated. It didn’t exist in the family pictures where Harry was small and he was just a baby. His mother had once been so beautiful, she’d been Homecoming Queen ‘39, she could’ve been in magazines, in the days before dad went off to war and came back broken. Now it seemed that whenever she looked at John her brow was permanently creased, like someone had ripped out a page of a magazine and folded it there. 

Her hands were on him again, then, pulling him in close and hugging him tight. He closed his eyes and listened to the thudding of her heart and forgot to be embarrassed about it. It didn’t matter because soon she was pushing him back -  _ don’t coddle the boy,  _ he heard his father’s voice say - but her fingers remained tightly curled on his arms, unable to fully let go. There was a helpless sort of look on her face that John didn’t know how to fix, only knew that he was somehow the cause of it.

“Go eat your supper, it’s gone all cold. You can do your homework at the table, where I can keep an eye on you.” 

  
“Yes, Momma,” said John, glad for the dismissal, although it took another heartbeat before his mother would let him go again. Even as he turned away, even as he heard her start talking to the Sheriff again, he felt her helpless eyes follow him. 


	4. Chapter 4

In the fall John preferred to sleep with his windows cracked open, inviting in the cool whispers of night air, for as long as the weather permitted it, of course, until winter came and the heating bill would be too high to dare even entertain such a thought.  

Tonight he lay in bed with his windows tightly closed, curtains drawn shut, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Shadows overtook his little room, shifted familiar shapes into things unknown. That was the transformative, illusory power of darkness: hanging coats became spectres, his dresser some sort of hulking, lurking creature, his chair with his clothes strewn over it a dripping, four-legged monster.  

There was no one standing in the corner of his room, John fiercely reminded himself. There was nothing watching him in bed.  

He would not look at it. He turned his eyes heavenward, up towards the crucifix hanging over his bed. It seemed that as long as it hung, the eyes of God would be upon him. The Lord would protect him. But all he could think about were the iron nails, square nails, nine inches long, driven deep into the bones of the wrists and ankles of our Lord. Many artists depicted Jesus nailed by his hands, but John knew that was impossible, the weight of his body would have ripped right off, and in the dark the crucifix seemed to gleam wetly, as if with blood...

Jesus’ sorrowful face gazed down upon him. 

And John thought to pray, 

_ Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, and if I should die before I wake - _

But this prayer had always bothered him, even as he’d recited it. Why would a healthy boy his age suddenly die in the middle of the night? Why would they teach children to say that?

According to his mother he had once suffered from night terrors when he was small. Harry claimed to remember this as well. John had no recollection. 

There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the daylight. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the daylight. This was the statement that made the most sense, and yet, there was-

A ray of light seeped through the crack in the curtains, briefly glided across the room like a bright yellow moonbeam, slithered across like a ghost, followed by the sound of tires rolling on gravel, the purr of an engine rumbling down the empty street.

John bolted out of bed, skin prickling, heart jumping, ran to the window, breath heaving, to snap the curtains fully shut, so that not even a sliver of light could get in.

He lay in bed, watching the darkness, for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

Sometime in the night, John’s door creaked open. He could sense the triangular spill of hallway light, the lightening of the room, even behind his closed eyes. He could feel his mother’s presence, floral, warm, smelling faintly of wine, checking in on him as she used to do when he was much younger. Seeing for herself, perhaps, that he had not been spirited away in the middle of the night. He was still there. They were both still there. 

John pretended to be asleep for her, until there was no longer a need to pretend. 

 

* * *

 

Some memories were buried so deep that they more resembled dreams.

It started at the second house they moved to, after Dad had gone.

Their new house was smaller, and draftier, but at least he and Harry didn’t have to share a room anymore, and wasn’t that somethin? Wouldn’t John like that? 

Momma continued on like she was married; wore her flowering dresses and her gold ring. She introduced herself to the neighbors as “Mrs. Watson,” only she told them that her husband had died in the war. It was, after all, mostly true. 

But for John and Harry it was mostly endless days of play, those long days of summer, until the setting sun stretched out the shadows of the swingset in the park. Those days they had no worries; when their only concern was to make it home in time for supper, to make it home before dark.

There were woods behind their house; the trees so tall their tops seemed to pierce the sky, so deep that John did not know where and if they ended.  They weren’t meant to venture into them but forbidden made it more enticing, and with no one around to tell them no he remembered playing amongst the rustling shadows, chasing Harry among the trees. He remembered the thrill of being chased through the darkness, his breath filling his chest, the relentless trill of his heart, his shrieks threading echoes through the trees.

(Did those days actually happen? Or did they belong to someone else, another time... were they part of a story he had heard once before? )

At the end of the day, as the sun burned into the trees, they ran home for dinner. Momma would be in the kitchen, perhaps taking a roast chicken out of the oven, perhaps with an apple pie cooling on the table. 

(Had they been that happy, once upon a time?) 

And at bedtime, Momma tucked them in, each of them in their own beds, in their own rooms. John had a room all to himself. It seemed too big, too empty, despite the fact that it was a bit smaller than his old room. It was loneliness that he was learning, for the very first time. 

He was a comma of a boy, huddled up in old blankets, in his new room, in his new bed. The dark seemed darker than it ever had before, and outside of his window, which was right next to the bed

(but his bed hadn’t been next to the window, had it?) 

He heard something.

In the morning, Harry would laugh and say that maybe he must have been dreaming. Or in the middle of the night, when John came running to her room, Momma would say that the light  _ tap-tap-tapping  _ had only been the scrape of branches against the glass

(but there were no trees that grew so close to the house)

and that John was a big boy now, and there was nothing to be afraid of, he must learn to sleep on his own. 

Sliver of sound in the dark, the silver of the moon glowing, and the room seemed to fill with a strange fluorescence. 

And when John awoke with screams of terror from dreams that he did not remember, his father would come pick him up and carry him to his parents’ bed.

(but Dad wasn’t there anymore, he wouldn’t ever come back again…)

The night was cold 

(but it was summer, it must have been )

The night was warm, but he kept the window closed, because it was important to keep it closed. There was a sound, winding, serpentine, through the placid night, and John was in the loneliness of the dark, what with the size of the room, and so empty.

His room filled with the unseen shapes that all children were afraid of...

He hadn’t been dreaming. This shimmering memory, like the shape of a fish in the water, too slippery to grasp;

“Harry, do you hear that?”

(but he’d had his own room, hadn’t he?)

“It’s only the wind, John!” 

“Momma, do you hear that?”

“It’s nothing, John. Just the hissing of the leaves. Now say your prayers and go back to sleep.” 

Prayers, after all, would keep him safe.

But maybe, at night, he’d see the fog rising from the road; and maybe, in the morning, he’d see the fingerprints on the outside of the glass, it would all fade as the mist in the rising sun, but these images stayed with him, like the shape of a body in the water.

The enchanted woods beckoned him, so deep that anything could be inside, that anyone who wandered in too far might be swallowed up, and never come back out. It was full of magic, just waiting to be found. And anything could come wandering out... 

He hadn’t been dreaming.

It might have just been the wind, but the wind had learned to form words with its voice, had learned language  - 

_ John, John, won’t you let me in? _

  
_ John, John, come out and play. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

 

Warm sun across his face. John saw bright red behind his closed eyes, blood red, even as he squeezed them tightly shut. Sunlight through his eyelids, lighting up the capillaries.

What sounded like hundreds of tiny birds were chattering just outside his window. A flock of migrating house sparrows had chosen to nest, temporarily, in the tree next to John’s window, and they had woken him up every day for the past week. When he finally blinked his eyes open he could see the little brown blobs hopping from branch to branch, through the window, fluttering their wings.

He reluctantly pulled his covers back and swung his legs around; the wooden floorboards were cold underneath his toes, and creaked as he put his weight on them. It was real, solid. He stared sleepily, for a moment, at the square of sunlight on the floor, before shaking off the haze to get ready for the day.

In the pure light of morning the previous night seemed to be just a dream.

“John, are you up yet? It’s time for school!” Momma shouted up the stairs.

Downstairs breakfast was waiting, and Harry was in the bathroom messing with her hair ribbon, making him wait for his turn, and he could hear the familiar sounds of paper bags rustling as Momma bustled about the kitchen, packing their lunches with all her curlers still in place.

 

By the time John made it down, Harry was already seated at the table, jamming breakfast into her mouth. His plate was noticeably empty of bacon, with one sad little half-piece left.  


“Harry!”

“Early bird gets the bacon,” Harry chomped out, spraying buttered toast crumbs across the table.

“Momma-!”

“I don’t wanna hear it! Eat your breakfast, John, and Harry, don’t talk with your mouth full, and both of you hurry it up. It’s quarter past seven already and if you don’t get going soon you’re going to be late for homeroom.”

John managed a few mournful bites of his eggs before Harry jumped up from the table, shouting, “Race ya to school!” and ran to the door to grab her backpack. He was running after her, toast in mouth, grabbing his backpack, when suddenly, his heart clenched up as he remembered -

He didn’t have a bike.

How was he going to get to school? What would Harry say? Forget that, what would _Momma_ say? Bikes did not exactly come cheap, and he’d probably have to combine both Christmas and birthday presents to even dare ask for a new one, and he’d get a tanning this time for _sure,_ on top of the grounding...

“C’mon slowpoke, I’m not waiting for you!” Harry called, from outside the front door.

John walked outside to see Harry mounting her bike, and there, parked next to her, was his bike. Blue metal gleaming in the sunlight, waiting, as if it had never been swallowed up at all.

The chill of the early morning rippled through him, making him shiver.

He hopped onto his bike and pedalled as hard and as fast as he could, as if someone were chasing after him, and if he were to slow down for even a moment, then he might finally be caught.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Donovan had heard from Mrs. Hooper who’d heard from Mr. Wilkes who had heard from the milkman that the Sheriff’s cruiser had been seen outside of the Watsons’ house last night.

_“Did you hear? He must have gone missing!”_

_“But I saw him in Algebra!”_

_“Did he spend the night in jail?”_

John heard whispers that rippled out from around him, and he knew they had to be about him. And yet it seemed that they were all talking about someone else. The voices landed on distant shores.  


What a strange day he was having. As he walked through his school’s black-and-white tiled corridors, he could hear his own steps out of rhythm. It seemed that he was always half a step behind or a step ahead of everybody else.  It was as if he were moving through a dream; everything just slightly moved half an inch to the right. He might wake up any moment and find himself, once again, in his own bed, ready to repeat the morning.

And it wasn’t that he was unused to being stared at. It was not a thing that bothered him, normally. But to feel the heaviness of eyes upon the back of his neck, even when he sat in the very last row in Biology, where he never sat, was a bit too much.

If he turned around too quickly he might see something, or if he closed his locker door too suddenly there might be someone standing there. He had the horrible feeling that if he looked up in the bathroom mirror his eyes would meet another pair of eyes there, a tall dark figure looming behind him.

This was all silly, he knew, and he told himself so as he stared determinedly into the suds and running water frothing over his hands.

 

* * *

 

By the time last period rolled around John had begun to feel a bit better. The haze that had been so tightly wrapped around his mind seemed to loosen, like bits of cotton falling away.

The shrill _brrrring_  of the last bell sounded out like an alarm clock, the halls suddenly filled with clamoring students, metal lockers clanging, everyone fighting to get their books, their bags, running out to catch their buses.

Harry ran into John, quite literally, on the steps of the school, nearly knocking him over as she slapped his backpack.

“Hey there, Lawbreaker! You were quite the talk of the town today!”

“Harry!” John protested. “I told you to stop-”

“So where _were_ you, anyway? Let me guess. Did little Sarah finally get the courage to ask you over to study?”

“No! It was nothing like that!” John shrugged her off, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I got caught up reading on the library, and when I was coming home, my….”  

His bike chain broke. And yet his bike had been fine, this morning. His mouth ran unexpectedly dry. _Who had fixed it, had it been…?_

“And then what?” Harry prompted.

“And then it took a lot longer to get home than I thought it would, is all,” he finished lamely.

“Aw, that’s it? You were late _reading_  at the _library?_ C’mon John, least you could do is have the decency to _lie_ , so I wouldn’t have to live my life knowing what an uncool brother I have.”

John forced a grin. “Sorry, Harry.”

“And here I been talking you up all day as a reckless renegade!”

“Harry, no!”

  
“Oh Harry _yes_ . You know, fame is wasted on you. Why not me? The Sheriff’s car was outside the _Watson_ residence. How come they all assume it’s you and not me?”

John laughed with exasperation. “Because, Harry, it _was_ me.”

“Well, yeah, dummy, but it could have easily been me who was out sneaking about late at night. When did you get the bad boy reputation? Has all my hard work been for nothin’?”

“You’ll just have to work harder at it I guess,” John said. “Maybe you could steal a car or something,” he offered helpfully. “Just don’t smoke, though, Momma would have a fit.”

“Yeah, grounded to high heaven. Which reminds me, Mom says to go _straight home_ , all right? I can’t babysit you because I’m off to Clara’s to work on our science project.”

“I know, I know,” said John. “And remember, Mom says _you_ have to be home an hour before curfew and if it’s after -”

“If it’s after or if it gets dark then I’ll ask Clara’s dad for a ride, I know, I know,” Harry finished for him, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, I know the rules, but do _you?”_

“‘Course I do.”

 

* * *

 

John made it home, in broad daylight, without much fuss. The Sheriff’s cruiser passed him once, down the stretch of Maple Street, as if to make sure he was staying true to his punishment, but otherwise it was the same uneventful ride he’d made hundreds of times before. 

He unlocked the front door, returned the house key to its usual hiding place underneath the welcome mat, and locked it behind him once he was inside. He went around the house, opening the curtains, to let the afternoon sunlight in.  Turned on the TV and the radio, although, if asked, he would not be able to recall which programs had aired, or what he’d spent his afternoon listening to. He did his homework at the kitchen table, watching the sky darken through the trees.

Momma’s car pulled into the driveway just as the sun became an orange light, burning through the branches. Harry came home about an hour later, dropped off by Mr. Clarkson. They all sat down to dinner together, just as normal.

Normally John liked to read before bed, but tonight he didn’t feel like reaching for one of his many issues of  _ Eerie Comics  _  or the thick volume of  _ Tales of Mystery and Madness  _ he kept hidden underneath his bed. Instead he lay in bed, listening to the comforting sounds of Harry’s radio playing down the hall.  Patsy Cline singing,  _ I go out walkin’, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do... _ _ I'm always walkin' after midnight searchin' for you… _

  
His bedroom door was open slightly, inviting in the warmth of the light from the hallway, and downstairs he could hear Momma doing the washing up, the sound of running water and the clinking of ceramic dishes against one another. Outside his window the light was gently fading; not quite dark, not yet, a world bathed in blue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to normal....for now.
> 
> [ Patsy Cline - Walkin' After Midnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsRNCvHXHHU)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget about you guys!! Had a busy day today and I'll catch up on comments tomorrow <3

When John opened his eyes the house had gone silent. His bedroom door was closed. Darkness all around him. The middle-of-the-night stillness that befell all living things; the silence of sleep.

And then it came again: _tap tap, tap tap._ Rhythmic and sharp; something knocking against glass.

A voice from memory, or maybe a dream. _John…come to the window. John…_

John looked over and through the open curtains he could see someone. A figure, dressed all in black, a shadow, shaped like a person, but it could be anyone, anything, and the yell welling up in his throat-

“John!” the voice was muffled, but his name was clear. Another two gentle raps at the window.

John rose from bed automatically. The movements were easy, thoughtless - push back the covers, swing his feet onto the ground, the same way he got out of bed for school each morning. By the time it occurred to him that he shouldn’t, he was already at the window.

Through the glass he saw him, those glittering feline eyes, the inky black hair and clothes, the sharpness of his face. The young man from last night.

John was, obviously, dreaming.

He settled his hands on the wooden windowsill. The young man motioned for him to push up the glass, mouthing silently. John hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, before he complied.    

“What are you doing here?” John asked.

The older boy smiled - a name rose to the forefront of John’s mind - _Sherlock._ His smile so languid and sure.  Something warm and foreign unfurled in the pit of John’s stomach; unexpectedly pleasurable. The young man splayed his hand against the insect screen, like a pale spider climbing up the mesh. “Won’t you let me in? Awful cold out here.”

The night air rushed into the room, autumn’s chilling breath upon John’s face, slipping in between his pajama shirt and his skin. He shivered. John looked down at his hands, remembered the ice-like smoothness of the windowpane beneath his fingertips. He gave himself a sharp pinch to his own arm, and was rewarded with a bloom of pain.

Sherlock watched him all the while, seeming amused. “Do you still think you’re dreaming?”

“I’m not sure,” John said. None of this made any sense. Outside, the street was quiet and empty, devoid of any signs of life. He could see the yellow glow of the streetlamp, faintly, through the tree branches, and above, the silver glow of the moon. “What are you doing here?” he repeated the question, since Sherlock hadn’t answered it the first time.

“I came to see you,” Sherlock answered him now. His voice warm and low; it jolted something strange inside of John that made him swallow reflexively. “I enjoyed our little chat...how have you been?”

“Fine, thank you. Yourself?” John responded, ever polite; his good manners second nature. Momma had raised him well, after all. Sherlock smirked, clearly amused, and John could only groan inwardly at his own square-ness.

“Thanks for fixing my bike,” John tried to recover. “I really owe you one,” and laughed a little, to show that all was cool (even when he was feeling decidedly uncool).

“Yes, you do, don’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes shone with interest, glow of blue phosphorous. He leaned in and for a moment John thought that he might just raise the window himself, and slip into the room. “How do you plan on paying me back?

John stammered, caught off guard by such a question. He didn’t have much to offer, now did he? What could Sherlock possibly be interested in?

Before he could even gather his thoughts properly, Sherlock laughed.  “Relax, I’m only teasing,” he said.

Even so, John had the distinct feeling he’d promised something he shouldn’t have, and bit his lip, as unease squirmed about in his gut.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about you,” Sherlock said.

Thinking about him. What kind of thoughts? John wanted to ask but couldn’t think of a way to say it without being odd about it. Or probing. Or too curious.

Things Sherlock clearly didn’t have any problem with, as he peered around John’s bedroom through the window.

“Not quite what I imagined.”

“You’ve...you’ve been imagining my bedroom?” John stammered, again. Twice now he'd been caught off guard by Sherlock's words, couldn't even imagine his intent. John's cheeks flushed, heat creeping up his body despite the chill.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. He was so bold. Unashamed. But really, what was there to be ashamed of? It wasn’t a crime to _think_ or _imagine,_ that wasn’t against the rules, but _what_ Sherlock was imagining, and why-

“You intrigue me,” Sherlock said. John’s pulse picked up for no apparent reason.

“Blank walls, few items of interest, the standard crucifix on the wall -” This last item noted with a wry smile - “This is the bedroom of a boring goody-two shoes,”  Sherlock said. “Someone ordinary. You’re very neat. I bet you even have your mother fooled. But you keep your real interests hidden away - there’s a stash of horrific tales right underneath your bed, isn’t there?”

His eyes caught the moonlight, sleek shine of silver. “And I know that’s not all you’ve been hiding.”

John could feel the pale eyes upon him, roaming all over his body, taking him in. Over his mismatched striped pants and checkered pajama top, over his messy slept-in hair with the cowlick, over his neck, exposed, over strip of chest and throat. His skin felt prickly all over with the attention. He felt himself, exposed, even though he was mostly covered.

He wanted to turn away but he couldn’t. He wanted to hear what else Sherlock had to say, but he knew he shouldn’t.

It seemed as though anything could happen, in the middle of the night...

“What are you doing out this late?” John asked. “The curfew-”

“Curfew doesn’t apply to me.” Serene half-smile, like the Mona Lisa.

“I’m sure if Sheriff Lestrade saw you, he would disagree.”

“Oh? And are you going to tell on me?” Sherlock asked archly.

“N-no!” John spluttered, so quickly and earnestly that he regretted it the moment the little word left his mouth. As soon as he saw Sherlock’s smile widen he _knew_ that he’d been teased, and was both embarrassed and annoyed at himself for falling for something so obvious.

“He won’t see me,” Sherlock reassured him. “You’re the only one who’ll see me tonight.”  
  
His eyes seemed to gleam in the dark.

  
“And,” Sherlock added, “The only one I want to see.”  


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn’t right, that particular feeling of pleasure, the warmth, the tripping increase of his pulse, at such simple words and approbation.

But it was natural, wasn’t it, to want a friend. Someone who understood the appeal of Poe and _Tales From the Crypt_ and _The Haunt of Fear_ and _True Ghost Stories._ Someone who was, somehow, sublimely unafraid of what might be going on, out in that dark night. Who possibly knew the answers to the mysteries that John had lived with his entire life.

“Maybe...maybe we can meet up at school?” John suggested. But he’d never seen Sherlock around school before, surely he would have noticed someone like _that._ His was the only high school in town. Unless Sherlock went to school in the next town over, or unless he was a bit older than he looked, as a matter of fact... “Do you go to school?” John asked, suddenly unsure.

And, for that matter -where were his parents? Surely no parent would let their child go gallivanting off into the dangerous night.

In a town where everybody knew everybody he’d never seen Sherlock around before. Not at the malt shoppe, not down at the arcade or even their little movie theatre. All the places young people might go to pass the time.

“I’ve been to school,” said Sherlock airily. “I didn’t find much use for it. Do you know there’s people out there - a committee - who select all the textbooks that everybody’s meant to read and then all the schools buy them up, and then the teachers teach you these books that might just be completely wrong. Your history book was written in 1911. What you’re actually being taught is how to follow rules. Not to think for yourself. And they never want you to ask the real questions, do they?”  

“I...I suppose not…”

“You’ve tried asking of course. You’re curious. Think of all the times you’ve wanted to know about something that everyone else takes for granted. Why does curfew exist? Why do the rules exist? And what _really_ happens when you don’t follow them?”

John thought of the dog that he’d seen, flayed open and bloodless. He thought of the boy that had disappeared, and how the adults, the authorities, had just...stopped looking. It had only been a month. As if they all knew they wouldn’t be able to find anything. If they held a funeral for him, they would have to bury an empty casket, but they didn’t know if he was _really_  dead, he was just gone…

How many empty graves _were_ there, up in the cemetery on the hill? What was _really_ out there, in the dark night? And why wasn’t Sherlock afraid?

“Where do you live?” John asked quietly. “Where’s your family from? I’ve never seen you around before…”

“We move around a lot,” Sherlock told him. “Never stay in one place for too long. I bet you’ve lived here your entire life, haven’t you?”

“That’s not true,” John was quick to correct. Wouldn’t do to have Sherlock thinking he had no life experience. “We moved here, years ago, but I was a lot younger then. I don’t remember a lot about living at our old house, just glimpses, but Harry remembers more. I don’t think there was curfew in our old town. My dad-”

He cut himself off - Sherlock had gone quiet, observing him with a look of rapt attention.

John bit his lip. He had said too much, he hadn’t meant to, but no one ever talked about those days. Momma didn’t like it.

“Your father,” Sherlock prompted slowly.

“Isn’t around anymore,” John finished for him. Sherlock kept looking at him, expectantly, and if John weren’t careful he would spill all his secrets to those moon-pale eyes.

 “Say, I got school in the morning,” he said, instead. “I really really need to be getting to sleep.” It was the truth but why couldn’t the truth at least sound a little cooler? “And...it’s the middle of the night. You should get home before something bad happens to you.”

“Something bad? Like what?” Sherlock’s tone was curious, but there was a silkiness to it, as if he were touched by John’s concern.

John found himself flushing again. “I...I don’t know.”

“Something you’ve seen?”

_The dog, split open, the thick ropes of its intestines trailing out…_

“I’ve just...it’s not safe, all right?” He didn’t want to pick up the paper the next morning and find Sherlock’s picture in it.

“You know how dangerous it is out here, and yet you still won’t let me in.” Sherlock was smiling at him, reaching out, as if to touch…

John let out the breath he’d been holding when pale fingers alighted upon the screen. He’d forgotten it was there, that wire mesh barrier between them.

“It’s against the rules,” John said, “You know that.” He knew that. “You’re a stranger, I don’t know anything about you.”

“Rules,” Sherlock scoffed. “If you cared about rules so much, then we’d never have met. And who wrote these rules, John? What committee? Or was it a person?  And why? Awful convenient way to control young people, don’t you think? Keep you all locked in and out of trouble. There’s so much you’re not allowed to do or see. You wonder why. I know you do.”

Sherlock’s words filled John with a sudden rush of feeling, like the night wind that rose to the window to greet him. His pulse quickened with excitement. He’d never dared give voice to his questions before, and to hear the words from someone else and not just in his own head made them more real, dangerous. He wanted to keep talking, Sherlock seemed like he was full of stories, maybe he’d even have answers. It would be so easy to open the window. An invitation. Down the tree branches, and then onto the street below. On that silent street Sherlock’s car would be waiting. He’d drive faster than anyone John ever knew, they’d could go faster than John had ever dreamed of, he’d _feel_ and experience things he’d never dreamed of -

But wait, no.

Sherlock was a stranger. And it was very late.

John needed to sleep.

“I’m closing the window now,” John said, definitively. “And... you shouldn’t come back here.”

Sherlock smiled, a secretive thing; as if he’d won something.

“Goodnight, John. I’ll see you next time.”

John closed the window firmly.

He watched as Sherlock turned to leave, slipping gracefully down, branch after branch, making the precarious descent down the tree with the ease of one who did not know fear. Until he could not see him anymore, and Sherlock had disappeared into that dark and lonely night.

A chill still lingered in the room despite the fact that the window was now shut. John turned away from the window, slid into his own bed, and it wasn’t until he had pulled the blankets over himself that he realized that he’d forgotten to draw the curtains closed.

It didn’t matter. He really needed to get some sleep.

The sheets were cool, underneath the blankets, and it would be a few minutes before they would warm up again. His heart was still pounding, erratically. Nonsensically. It would be a few minutes more before it calmed down again.

As he closed his eyes, he could hear the rumble of an engine coming to life, the sound of tires rolling down an empty street...


	8. Chapter 8

John opened his eyes and he was standing in a forest. Trees all around him, so tall that they blocked out light. A voice whispered to him with great urgency, _RUN._

 

And so he ran.

 

His heart was pounding, pounding with terror; he was aware of each beat,  and with every beat he was aware of the rush in his body, the urge that said he had to _run run run_ and he should not stop, he could not stop, he should never stop -

 

Because he was being chased. Something was after him. No time to look over his shoulder. He didn’t dare.  

 

His legs pumping. He had to keep running. He had to. He was dodging amongst the trees. But not once did it occur to him to hide. There was no time. There was no place to hide. He would surely be found out.

 

And no matter how quickly he ran, how hard he pushed himself, the forest never changed around him. The same trees, over and over again. Was he running in circles? He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t making any ground. If anything, he was _slowing down,_  and whatever was behind him, it was getting faster, and faster, and closer, and closer, he could feel it ready to snatch him, its breath on his neck-  

 

“Gotcha!”

 

John yelped as he was knocked down to the ground; he struggled and kicked, but to no effect. In less than a second he was pinned, with Sherlock sitting on his hips.

 

“Gotcha,” said Sherlock again, grinning.

 

And John began to laugh, exhilarated, wild. Because, of course, it had been a game, all in good fun, the same way he and Harry used to chase each other through the trees when they were small.

 

Only he was much bigger now, and Sherlock wasn’t Harry, and his smile had a glint of something even more mischievous to it. There were things John was aware of: the softness of the forest floor beneath him, the weight of Sherlock on his hips, Sherlock’s hands on his wrists, pinning him down -firm, though, not too hard, because this was only play.

 

“You cheated,” John accused, breathless, still giggling. “You must have. I could have kept running forever.”

 

“You could have,” Sherlock agreed. “But, eventually, you would have let me catch up to you. Half of the fun of being chased is the possibility of being caught...”

 

Sherlock’s eyes seemed hooded, dark as the woods that surrounded them. But in his eyes, there was the paleness of the winter sky. John looked down to his mouth, strangely full lips, pink - and once again felt that warm heat pooling low in his belly, warmer now for the feeling of Sherlock on top of him, for his larger hands gently encircling John’s wrists, holding them down with just enough pressure to let John know he wasn’t going anywhere.

 

The woods were strangely quiet; no birdsong in the trees, no buzzing, insect hum, only the too-loud sounds of John’s panting breath as he came down from his laughter.  

 

Sherlock’s thumb stroked gently over the inside of his wrist, tracing over the vein - taking his undoubtedly-quickening pulse. John held his breath.

 

Something moved in the woods. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw it. Something pale - white, maybe? - colorless. He didn’t want to turn to look at it. He couldn’t quite focus on it.

  
And there, again. It was only a blur, a- a wrongness. _And it crawled, on all fours..._

 

“There’s a wolf,” John said, panic rising in his throat. He wanted to struggle but found that he lacked the strength, his limbs, somehow, wouldn’t obey. Sherlock held him tight.

 

“Shh, John,” said Sherlock. He bent down, closer, until John could feel the whisper of his breath over his face. “Don’t worry. There is only me.”

 

Sherlock was so close. Their faces bare inches apart. He was close enough to...to do what, exactly? Something boys oughtn’t do. And yet the feeling in John’s belly was roiling, hot. Summer heaviness in between his legs. John held himself perfectly still, he dared not move, or speak, or even breathe. A tremor of pleasure straight down his spine as Sherlock’s hands clenched tighter on his wrists, just this side of hurt, and Sherlock bent his head, moving in, to...to place his mouth at John’s throat-

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“John! Breakfast!” 

 

John jolted awake at Momma’s voice, heart still pounding. The back of his neck damp with sweat. Stomach all tied up in knots. Sticky feeling underneath his sheets.

He’d had...one of those  _ nocturnal emissions _ they had told him about in health class. It wasn’t the first time it had happened - John remembered one such incident after watching the cheerleaders practice after school - but it was the first time that he’d experienced it over something so...strange. What was wrong with him? 

  
Glanced up to see Christ on his cross looking down over him; the sound of his mother’s voice ringing in his ears.  His face flamed with embarrassment at the idea of God having seen it all. 

“John! Are you up yet?” 

“Uh-huh! I’m coming, Momma!” 

He grabbed his clothes and made his way down the hall to the bathroom, praying that he didn’t have to run into Harry on the way. Or that the bathroom was free, at least. 

It was, blessedly, empty. 

He stripped himself quick as he could, determinedly not looking at the mess made in his underwear. It occurred to him to run it under the tap for a few minutes so as to wash away most of the evidence, before burying it deep into the laundry hamper. The idea of Momma finding  _ that  _ made him want to positively  _ die  _ of mortification. 

It was still warm enough, this time of the year, that the pipes weren’t completely cold and so the water only took a minute or so to reach a bearable temperature. John stepped in, tilting his face up, letting the tepid drops splash over his skin and hair. 

He wanted to scrub away all evidence of his nighttime transgressions, those strange images of being pinned down by an older boy, nothing like the wrestling he’d played at with Bill or Mike or Harry, he could still feel Sherlock’s breath as it ghosted over his face - and down between his legs he was...hard. Just a natural reaction of his awakening body; it happened many mornings, in fact, and he’d been told it would go away, naturally, on its own. Health class had warned him about the mysteries of puberty, about his own changing body, but when he allowed his fingers to - accidentally - brush against it he was confronted with a jolt of pleasure that had never been mentioned in any textbook. 

To touch thineself in those privatemost places - dirty, wicked places - it was sin. And the Lord would know. But as the temperature of the water increased, heating his skin, and the steam rose billowing around him John felt himself feverish, his mind hazy, unable to help thinking of Sherlock’s face close to his, the weight of his body, pressing down upon him - and it only was a dream. 

He bit his lip, knew he shouldn’t - shouldn’t touch, should turn on the cold water and wash it all away. Rain ice upon his traitorous body. Knew this even as he placed his hand upon himself and closed his eyes, letting the dream slide forward, thought of what Sherlock had been about to do, his mouth open, descending upon John’s throat, this was bad, and this felt so  _ good- _

 

In the waters no salvation, no baptism, only more sin and shame.    

 


	10. Chapter 10

He found himself looking for Sherlock at school - half-convinced if he turned a corner he’d spot him there, leaning against a locker, or maybe lounging, bored, feet up on the desk in the back of the room in Chemistry, or perhaps strolling in from the parking lot, half an hour late for class. It was, of course, ridiculous. He’d never seen anyone like Sherlock before. Someone like him would stick out like a sore thumb in their little town; in any small town he visited-

And there was, of course, that strange hot feeling whenever he thought of Sherlock, the way he talked, the way he said his name,  _ John, _ a low, full sound that made John feel full, swelled up of something that was like hot air rising to the surface; and then, immediately, the sour unhappy wrongness prickling at him, the hot shame of what he’d done -

 

“John, are you listening to me?” 

John tried very hard to remember what Mike had been talking about for the last ten minutes. 

“Um, yeah, you can have the other half of my sandwich,” John decided, after a moment. 

“What? That’s doesn’t have anything to do with-” Mike reached for the sandwich anyway, presumably before John could change his mind. 

“What’s up with you today?” he asked, mouth half-full.  “You were distracted all through English and History. And you barely touched any of your food.” 

Something was wrong with John, but how could he begin to put it into words? He had been walking around with an uncomfortable weight in his stomach all day. Guilt in the back of his throat. 

“I know what’s wrong with him,” Bill chimed in.

“You do?” asked John, surprised. A momentary chill of panic prickling all over his skin.  Could Bill tell that...that there was something different about him? Something wrong or sinful? 

“Yep,” Bill answered with absolute authority. “Gazing out of windows...unable to answer simple questions in English...Heartlessly ignoring his best friends….I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“If it’s so obvious, then just say it already!” Mike huffed.

“Well, he’s  _ lovesick,  _ of course. He’s absolutely  _ gone  _ for some dolly…”

“What? No!” Mike and John protested in unison.

“Why didn’t you tell me, John?” asked Mike, feigning betrayal. 

“He’s embarrassed, of course,” Bill supplied for him. “Fortunately, you have  _ me _ to figure this out for you-”

“Who is it?” Mike wanted to know.   

“Definitely Sarah,” Bill said, before John could think of an answer. “She keeps making eyes over here during our lunches.” 

“I was gonna say Sarah!” Mike said. 

“It’s…” John said, and paused, unsure how to continue. “Not really like that.”

He considered, for a moment, telling them. About the strange young man who had come to his window in the middle of the night - And then what? 

Did they think it was all right to be out after curfew? Did they want to see what happened to those who stayed out at night? Had they ever met a stranger on a lonely stretch of road, going home?

His chest burned at the last thought, for no reason. No, that was impossible. 

“Ah-ha!” said Bill. “Guilty as charged. See? He’s blushing!”

“I think you should ask her to the Fall Ball,” Mike said. 

“I’ll...I’ll think about it,” John relented. 

Laughing, they turned back to their lunch, discussion of who would they ask to the Fall Ball, who might agree to go with them, if it would even be fun, as they’d never been to a school dance before - and if John might be allowed to go, by the time it rolled around. Normal things that John had little interest in. Come to think of it, he’d never really had any interest in them to begin with. 

Would Bill and Mike still want to be close to him, if they knew the truth? If they knew who he was? 

John didn’t even know who he really was. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy day today! I'll be catching up on comments slowly <3 Thank you everyone thus far for your interest and engagement, it's been very exciting and fun to have discussions with you!!

John lay in bed, in wait, and under his sheets he was hot, his skin was hot, and his pajama pants stuck to the skin of his thighs. But still he clung to the sheets, clutched the covers up to his chin, for fear of exposing himself. To what? He wasn’t sure. The irrational fears of the night.

He did not want to open his window but he had not fully closed the curtains either. He could not get up, he could not sleep. All he could do was wait. (For...?)

Every scratch of the branches against the window made him twitch. He could hear the wind rustling through the leaves, setting them all into a whisper down the otherwise quiet street.

He wanted to be left alone, didn’t he? Or perhaps he wanted -

He didn’t dare complete the thought.

On the opposite wall hung the crucifix. Jesus was looking down upon him, full of suffering and sorrow, judgmental.  

(...for the sound at his window.)

There was a heaviness, twisting, slowly, as a serpent does, in the cavern of his stomach. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of it. He did not dare, he did not dare, did not dare think

( _ The blind, easy pleasure of touching) _

Instead focused on the burning embarrassment, the shame. Felt 

( _ the forbidden rush) _

the watchful eyes of God upon him. For who else his soul to keep? 

Everything else was but a lingering dream. Damnation, however, was real and eternal. Still - John wondered, only idly, if maybe he would see - him - tonight, and then remembered in the same thought that he’d told Sherlock to go away, and perhaps Sherlock had listened. And this was a good thing, he told himself, as he twisted around and pulled the sheets over his head. This was a very good thing.


	12. Chapter 12

The moon - as seen through tinted windows - was heavy and full, low in the sky and closer than John had ever seen it.

 

The engine thrummed beneath his thighs.

 

The moon was chasing them, through the blurring branches of the trees. Moving like quicksilver. John’s breath caught in his throat with how fast they were driving. They were passing all manner of country, that dark landscape of September into October country, the trees with their grasping branches and the insect-skittering of leaves.

 

“Where are you taking me?” John heard himself ask.

 

Next to him Sherlock replied, “Why, I’m taking you home, of course.”

 

But the road was dark and unknown, and the car leapt forward when Sherlock pushed his foot down on the accelerator. John looked out the window and he could see: something moving in the woods, something pale and strange and blurred…

 

It was witch weather, John thought, and now was the witching hour.  

 

He didn’t know where they drove, or for how long, only it was far, far, farther than he had ever known, farther than he could ever go.

 

Then they were stopped. They were on a cliff, looking out at the large moon and the vast black curtain of night. The city was below; glimmering and full of lights. The sky was above, glimmering and full of stars.  The sky opened. Before them, there was a giant movie screen, unlike any John had ever seen before.

 

He didn't even know they made 'em like this. Free-standing, just out in the open air, not contained inside a theater.

 

Sherlock turned to him, and the moonlight was on his skin, and the night was in his hair, and the slight curve of a smile rested on his full lips and despite the glacial color of his eyes John felt everything but ice.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shifted his gaze to the movie screen.

 

Something was playing there. Somehow, John didn’t quite want to watch it, he felt the urge to cover his eyes, and, as he might when he was younger, peep only from the safety of between his fingers.

 

In the movie, someone was being stalked. They didn’t know they were being stalked, but the audience knew, from the predatory eye of the camera and the rising intensity of the violins.

 

There was some kind of monster lurking just on the edges of the screen, something pale and blurred, as if the camera had suddenly lost focus there. It twitched, it twisted like a fog…

 

It was only a movie, but the rising terror in John’s throat was real. Fear washed over him like black water, bubbles rising up to the surface; he imagined his own mouth open in a silent scream. His heart pounded-  

 

“Are you scared?” Sherlock asked him.

 

“No,” John lied.

 

Sherlock smiled, and John felt that slithering sensation of warmth low, low in his belly.

 

“I thought you liked horror movies.”

 

“I do,” John admitted.

 

“There’s some part of you that enjoys being scared,” Sherlock said - and John’s mouth ran dry. When had Sherlock come so close? His movements were so fluid, he poured like ink over the leather seats and suddenly the distance between them was nonexistent. “I can hear your heart pounding from here,” Sherlock said, and his face was so close, and he placed his hand upon the center of John’s chest. “I can feel it.”

 

John felt hot all over, trapped underneath the weight of Sherlock’s hand upon his chest, pressing upon him, heat in his stomach and tingling in between his thighs, as if the engine were still rumbling underneath him. His whole body felt as if it were vibrating, and he didn’t know what to say.

 

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked. His deep voice surrounding them both, his mouth, close enough to - “Being so afraid, sometimes. The adrenaline in your veins. It excites you, stimulates you.” And he was pressed right against John, weight of his body fully upon him, John trapped between Sherlock and the car door.

 

There was no room to move, no place to escape, and Sherlock’s hand slid up to John’s hair, long white fingers threading through, tugging his head back and then Sherlock’s  mouth was upon his neck -

In the movie the violins came to a shrieking crescendo and then it occurred to John that someone was shrieking as well, it sounded like him, it was him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this is a tiny short bit that was too small for its own update, so here it is! Extra little cookie for today._

John woke gasping, in tremors, shuddering with pleasure. It rolled through him in little waves, one after another, his stomach clenching, and he whimpered with his own release.

When the shivers subsided the embarrassment set in. Day had come; harsh sun chased away the night’s phantoms and filled the room with heat. His face flushed with warmth; his bedclothes were overly hot and stuck to his skin.

And looking down upon him, Jesus seemed awful disappointed.

John forced himself out of bed, headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. Just the movement made him wince - not out of pain but rather humiliation, disgust - overly aware of the unpleasant damp spot in his pants.

But when he got down the hall, the shower was already running, the bathroom door locked, and Harry’s voice clearly heard singing, “ _Heaven help me I didn’t see the devil in your eyes..._ ”

There was nothing to do but to stand out in the hallway and wait, and listen to his sister in the shower, completely unaware of what kind of brother she had, and listen to his mother downstairs, completely unaware of what kind of son she had, and with every passing second he could feel the body-temperature wetness soaking into his underwear.

 

He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know what to do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vampire greaserlock mood: [ Night Call ](https://youtu.be/MV_3Dpw-BRY)
> 
>  
> 
> _I'm giving you a night call to tell you how I feel_  
>  I want to drive you through the night, down the hills  
> I'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hear  
> I'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear
> 
> _There's something inside you_  
>  It's hard to explain  
> They're talking about you, boy  
> But you're still the same  
> 


	14. Chapter 14

There was a period, when he was younger, that John wished that he looked like his mother. Not because she was beautiful, even though she was, but rather because he loved her. 

When they were out together, as a family, at the supermarket or perhaps at church, people would comment on how like her mother Harry was, how she too would one day be a great beauty. They made no such comparisons for John. 

“Why, you have my smile,” his Momma had told him, “and my blue eyes.”

“You are brave like your Momma, and I know you are kind.”

It wasn’t enough. 

One day, in the midst of a game of hide and seek, he found his mother’s old photo albums buried in the distant dark corners of her closet. Pictures from a time before him, and some of them before Harry. His mother in her wedding dress. Pictures of his father in military uniform, a man of whom he remembered little, and knew even less.  

His father appeared much taller than him, of course, and broader, in a way that John hoped to one day be, although perhaps he’d inherited his mother’s petite build. The resemblance was obvious, regardless. 

And it would become more obvious, the older he got. He wore the face of a stranger. Someone he’d never known had given him a face, and a name, and then disappeared from his life. 

 

On the playground, Carl Powers said, “My parents were talking last night and they said that your mom goes around like she’s in mourning, like your dad  _ died _ or something, but that’s ridiculous since anybody smart enough can figure out that your dad actually  _ left _ , and it’s nobody’s fault that she can’t keep a husband.”

The sun had been out, shining, in a cloudless azure sky; swings creaking, children shrieking in the background. John stared into its harsh light, trying to ignore the hum that was beginning to build up between his ears. 

Carl continued, “My mom says she should drop the sad widow act because she’s just doing it to attract a new man, cos everyone knows it’s not right for kids to grow up without a father, it makes you  _ weird.  _ That’s why you’re  _ weird. _ But she should know to at least stay away from other people’s husbands-”

John couldn’t rightfully say what happened next. All he knew was one minute he’d been trying to play Explorer with his friends, and the next he was on top of Carl. And although Carl was in fourth grade, a whole grade above him, and a whole head taller, and quite a bit bigger, John managed to knock him to the ground and was now sat upon his chest, pummeling his ears as Carl screamed and attempted to shove him off.

John couldn’t hear anything above the roar of blood in his own ears, the hot, hot feeling rising in his chest, the voices of the crowd surrounding them, with their bloodthirsty little chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” 

It felt good to punch Carl. His fists connected solidly with the boy’s ears, he could feel the soft flesh underneath his knuckles, and every cry of pain sent a righteous rush of satisfaction straight through his arm and up the core of him. John wanted to make him sorry for everything he’d said; he wanted him to hurt, to  _ bleed.  _  He was used to wrestling and play-fighting with Harry, so he was surprised at the way Carl crumpled when he punched him in the face. The older boy scrunched up like paper, body folding up, like he’d collapsed from within. His arms dropped limply to his sides and he stopped kicking entirely, and all he did was cry.  

John had expected him to put up a fight. He had a burning curiosity to see what his own face would look like with a few bruises. Although, he supposed, bullies never really did fight back, not in a fair fight, anyway. 

Staring into Carl’s sobbing, snotty face made John feel sick, sick to his stomach like he could throw up his entire lunch, and by the time the teacher came over it was quite easy to pull the two boys apart.

The principal called his mother, who then had to leave work in the middle of her shift to retrieve him from school. Two days suspension for fighting, they said. Despite John’s protests of how he hadn’t started it - the fact of the matter was Carl Powers had a black eye and a fat lip and John didn’t have a scratch on him. 

On the ride home, Momma berated him, “What’s gotten into you?” but what she didn’t know was that it had been inside of him all along. 

Something inside of him, that had been dormant - sleeping - for a while, had roared to life in an instant. Back on the playground he hadn’t even been thinking, he was acting purely on instinct, a secret second nature hiding beneath his first.

He couldn’t tell his Momma how good it had felt, that surge of triumph, edged with joy, before it all became just awful. 

He was sent to bed without supper. Later he could hear his Momma on the phone to his aunt Josephine, who lived all the way in Pennsylvania, and his momma said, “I just worry about John, he has so much of his father in him.”

And John wondered, what could she mean by that?

 

There was a series of pictures in the photo album: his mother and father by the sea. They are newly wed, judging by the placement in the album, the ring on his mother’s finger. His mother wears a white scarf tied around her head, and her sunglasses and lipstick give her the glamorous appearance of a movie star. She is smiling at his father. His father is not looking at her but rather squinting towards the camera, one hand over his eyes to block out the sun, and he is not looking out at the viewer at all, but rather at something beyond. Something beyond John. In another picture of his father (likely taken by John’s mother) he leans over a railing and looks out towards the sea, towards the horizon, looking at something that John cannot see.

 

Once in the middle of the night, John had awakened from a nightmare, and feeling lost in their new house, he had run to his mother’s room, only to find that she wasn’t there. Instead the lights in the kitchen were on, and he’d wandered downstairs to find his Momma there, sitting at the table, with the radio playing as she sipped from a glass of wine. Although he watched her for a while, she didn’t seem to notice him. She was someplace far away, the radio playing for no one at all.

Now that John was older, he knew what it meant when the lights were on in the kitchen late at night. 

But what was it that kept her up, away from sleep? 

Was she thinking of distant dark eyes that John didn’t remember? 

  
Or was she thinking of her son, her worrisome boy, and whether he might, one day, like his father, disappear?


	15. Chapter 15

Saturday night. John lay in bed, eyes squeezed shut, muscles tense and trembling. Like every part of him was a glass bottle with a bluebottle fly trapped inside, buzzing, buzzing about.

He was burning up with all the restlessness of the day, cooped up inside, on account of his punishment, avoiding both Harry and his mother, on account of his embarrassment. Every cell, every molecule of him seemed to be vibrating with unused energy; a boy on the verge of explosion, or implosion - whichever came first.  

So it was a wonder when he didn’t jump or scream, when it happened - what he’d been waiting for, what he’d been dreading: the knock at the window.  

He wanted to go to the window, felt the magnetic pull of it, of Sherlock and his liquid mercury eyes, the tug in his stomach that told him it would be a good thing, and his muscles strained in resistance.

 _No no no,_ he thought fervently to himself.

His eyes flickered open, to the cross above his bed, thought of his mother downstairs, of his sister down the hall, and he knew he should not, he ought not, he could not, would not.

 _Go away, go away, go away,_ he prayed, tugging the sheets up over his head.

The knocking came once again, three gentle raps.

 _Please,_ John begged, in his head, _please just leave me alone._

The knocking didn’t come again, and John lay awake in bed for at least another hour, just to make sure.

Although his prayers had been answered, although he’d been strong, he couldn’t help thinking that this relief felt awfully similar to disappointment.

  


* * *

 

John passed the night fitfully. He could not remember exactly what he dreamt, only flashes of images: an empty coffin, the sensation of hands upon him, all over his body, a mouth upon his skin.

He woke sweating, shivering, feverish; sheets tangled up around his legs, blankets kicked off the bed. He woke rigid in his pants, and as exhausted as if he hadn’t slept at all.

His face burned with humiliation at the treachery of his own body, this state he once again found himself in. He beat Harry to the shower, turned it as cold as it would go, and threw his overheated body into the freezing spray; cold droplets stinging his skin just as hot tears of embarrassment, helplessness stung his eyes.  

Afterwards, his mortifying condition went away; the feeling of dirtiness remained.

  
Then it was time for church.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this video is so vampire greaserlock mood: _[Acid Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxg4C365LbQ)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Daylight_  
>  In bad dreams  
> In a cool world  
> Full of cruel things  
> Hang tight  
> All you  
> Nothing like a big bad bridge  
> To go burning through ...


	16. Chapter 16

Their church was old - considered historic, in fact; built about one hundred and fifty years ago, when their town was first founded. Since then it had been renovated a few times, fitted with modern amenities. It had been completely rebuilt once, at the turn of the century, after a great fire burned it to the ground.

The new church was rebuilt in stone and loomed imposingly over its congregation with its sharp spire that seemed to reach for Heaven. Outside, the white signboard reminded everyone “ **SANCTUARY HERE** ” for those who found themselves out after curfew, although John rather thought it would have been just as creepy to spend the night in the church as it was to make your way home in the dark.

He could feel himself sweating under the stiff, starchy collar of his white shirt as they entered the building; partly because Momma had fixed his tie too tight and mostly because he rather thought he might burn up in the House of God. As soon as he stepped upon that crimson carpet he might light up, like a beacon, so that all would know his sin, or perhaps the priest would see the workings of the Devil in him, and seek to cast it out.      

Towards the front of the Church, above the altar, hung a giant crucifix. The Son of God sculpted in exquisite, loving detail; from the soft curls of his brown hair to every straining muscle, long lashes resting gently upon his cheeks, serene and beautiful in his suffering.

Despite the fact that it was fairly mild out that Sunday, the heat in the church was turned up full blast. The radiator had broken last week and they had yet to get it fixed. From their wooden pew John could hear it hissing, a constant soft sibilance in the background, particularly loud in the brief periods of quiet between the neighborly chatter and before the prayer.

Some of the ladies were fanning themselves with gloved hands, looking like creamy ornate cakes gently wilting underneath the drooping flowers of their Sunday hats. Most of the men remained stoic and red-faced in their suit jackets and ties, although one would occasionally fan himself with his hat and say to his neighbor, “Whew! It sure is warm.”   

Momma quietly, gracefully bore the heat as if it were her penance; one would never know she was suffering just to look at her. It was important, she always stressed to John and Harry, that they put on their best face for Sunday service. And so he and Harry always showed up with their faces scrubbed bright and clean, their clothes in order, pants pressed, ironed dress, shoes shining, and although Harry sometimes whined that it was her God-given right to have a little dirt on her knees, John rather suspected that a pristine appearance was more for the benefit of their earth-bound neighbors than any heavenly eyes.

This Sunday’s Scripture was a passage about the Temptation of Christ. _After his Baptism,_ _then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil_ _, living among wild beasts, and the angels minister to him._

 _Satan tempted Jesus three times,_ _seeking to compromise his filial attitude toward God. Jesus rebuffed Satan three times, this humble Messiah, the Son of God, who triumphed over Satan by resisting his temptations, and adhered instead to the plan of salvation set by our Father._

Father Pike stood at the pulpit, arms wide as if to embrace his parishioners. His voice resonated through the church, filling the cavernous space.

And so ran the sermon:

 

“When the Devil comes to you he is beautiful. ‘Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light;’ so says Corinthians 11:14. That is why he is dangerous. Nowadays we are surrounded by temptation; and we must worry about our youth, who are particularly susceptible. The Devil comes to our youth in the form of fast cars, cheap thrills, and especially that evil known as ‘rock and roll’ - tempting our youth to sin.

“Have you heard these songs? Have you listened to what your children are listening to? These songs that tell of the allure of the dark. They say, ‘Tonight is Right for Love.’ They say, ‘I Need Your Love Tonight.’ They make the darkness romantic. They encourage rebellion. They tell our children to break the rules.”

 

Harry had the Bible open on her lap, looking for all the world like she was piously following along, when John knew she was probably thumbing through for naughty bits. The Old Testament had plenty of those (as Harry had shown him).  She was humming, quietly, only just loud enough for John to hear: an Elvis song. She generously shared her records with John; to save him from his own uncoolness, she said. John liked all of it: Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash, Ray Charles - Elvis being his favorite.

He knew the song she was humming; she’d been listening to it just the other night. The words floated easily to the front of his mind:

 

_One night with you_

_Is what I'm now praying for_

_The things that we two could plan_

_Would make my dreams come true_

 

The good Reverend continued: “The Lord gave us the Ten Commandments so that we would know how to best live our lives. Young ones, listen to me: Honor thy father and mother.  Rules exist for a reason. Rules keep us safe. Curfew keeps us safe.

“We are meant to live our lives in the light. We are meant to be home before the sun sets. And if you should stray from the goodness and the light, that way darkness lies.”

 

John swallowed, shifting in his seat on the worn red cushion of the pew. His slacks were scratchy and hot against his thighs. He turned his eyes heavenward, and met instead the suffering Christ, forever nailed to his cross. Jesus’ eyes were downward cast, toward the realm of mortals. Forever sad about this whole sorry state of affairs. John felt awful glad he wasn’t seated further towards the front, in that particular line of view.

“One must use the guiding hand of the Lord - to seek the Lord for guidance, to stay on the true and humble path.”

 

_Just call my name_

_And I'll be right by your side_

_I want your sweet helping hand_

_My love’s too strong to hide_

 

Stained glass windows lined the walls of the church on either side, depicting the 14 Stations of the Cross.  All around him, Christ was betrayed, stripped, tortured, crucified, resurrected.

The sun shone through the window, casting rainbow flecks of color upon the parishioners. Bits of green and blue upon the carpet, drops of red upon the parishioners.

They were sitting underneath the window depicting the Scourging at the Pillar. Jesus loomed over John - tied to a marble column by his wrists, being flagellated before a crowd.

 

“The Devil does not want our children to stay true. So he plants temptations along the path. This rock and roll that leads to dancing, which leads to moving your hips, this gyration of body parts, it all leads young people to one place. The sins of the flesh. The sin of Lust-”

 

A syrupy heat lay along John’s shoulders, seemed to trickle down his neck, dripping slow down his back and along his spine. A slithering heat roiled in his stomach. Guilt hung heavy upon him.  

An impossibility he didn’t want to think about; the phantom feeling of hands upon his skin, the often-revisited dream weight of someone on top of him…

 

“This music is a contributing factor to juvenile delinquency. How do we know this? Because of how it feels, when you hear it. What it does to you. The evil of the feeling - the beat, the beat. The rhythm stirs something inside of you. It is a sound sent from the Devil himself, straight from the bowels of hell- ”

Next to him, Harry was humming -

_One night with you,_

_Is what I’m now praying for_

_The things we two could plan_

_Would make my dreams come true_

 

In the window, stripes of red glowed bright across the white flesh of the Lord’s back. The sun scattered drops of red onto the congregation like rose petals, or perhaps flecks of blood.

Had the walls always been so tight and close? There seemed to be no space in between the stone and the rows of wooden pews. Had the windows always been so large? The hard, unforgiving wood of the pew pressed back on his thighs.

 

“The beat, the beat, it makes their bodies feel so hot, and they begin thinking things, these immoral things, they get these ideas in their head, hellfire in the core of their bodies-”

 

It was too hot in the church, hard to think. John looked up to see Jesus with his muscles straining in quiet agony, the godliness of his torso, the tightness of his chest and abdominal musculature, the perfection of his divine features.

“These are the seeds of seduction planted by Satan, we must tear it out by the root-”

The radiator was hissing while Father Pike spoke, soft and serpentine at first, and then louder and louder, like a kettle whistling as water came to a boil. There was something moving down Jesus’ foot. A crawling black fly, perhaps. John couldn’t help but look at it. No, it was a trickle. A trickle of something...something red? It looked like…

“Take this, all of you, and drink it…”

But it couldn’t be. But it looked like -

“for this is my blood, which shall be poured out for you-”

Blood. There was a trickle of blood running down Jesus’ heavenly, handsome face, but that was impossible,

“In the name of the new covenant, for the forgiveness of your sins-”

and waves of heat were rolling through John’s body, sickness churning inside of him. The Lord was bleeding before him. Bleeding from the wounds in his hands and ankles, stigmata they called it, there were red ruby drops on the parishioners, drops of ruby trickling down His face

“For He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day-”

  
Dripping down from the crown of thorns, and the priest was still talking-  _Just call my name, I’ll be right by your side -_ Satan slithering forth in the form of a black serpent, and the choir was starting to sing the _Agnus Dei:_ _Lamb of God, you who take away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us,_ voices raising up to the rafters, and Jesus was beautiful and bleeding but no one saw him bleeding, John felt too hot, sick, sick to his stomach and the Stations of the Cross were pressing in around him, the blood on the crucifix, on the Lord, blood of the covenant drip, dripping down in thick scarlet rivulets, getting caught in Jesus’ long dark lashes, _**Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis**_ then Jesus opened his eyes -  John wanted to scream - eyes like a winter lake, eyes like the incoming frost oh God, oh god, God was seeing him, he was being _seen, he was seen_

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

“There you are, you’re all right, you’re all right.”

John was looking up at blue sky, and then his Momma and Harry standing over him, fanning him with church pamphlets.

“I’ve been telling everyone, they really have to fix that heating! Especially on a warm day like today. Careful, honey, don’t sit up just yet.”

The ground was cool against his back, soft spiky grass underneath his hands. He could smell the richness of the earth and the green juice of the crushed blades of grass. The world had stopped spinning. Sunlight was warm upon his legs, but the rest of his body lay in the shade. Blessed, gentle darkness. A breeze ghosted over him, and off in the distance, birds were singing. Inside the building, the choir was singing.

“Oh man, this is a great way to get out of service, Johnny boy, if only you could have done it before that ghastly sermon!” Harry said.

“How are you feeling, Johnny?” Momma asked him - her soft, gentle hand wiping his brow.

Her touch was too tender; a mother’s ignorant love. There was so much that she didn’t know. He wanted to cry. He wanted to roll over and be sick.

“I think I’ll be okay,” he said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ One Night With You ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8o74j7t1tKs)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> tiny lil cookie today but long chapter coming up! (Should we wait? hmm...)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's sunset here.....

Sunset - finally.

 

With it came a strange sort of relief as the light was leeched from the sky, signalling the end of an upsetting day. Fire burned up the horizon and filled John’s room with a glowing, orange light.

 

Upon his bed  he was reading, a story from an old issue of  _ Weird Tales _ :  

 

> Ever since he had begun to have the dreams about Joan, there had been a compass in his head. He felt that he could go as directly to the spot from which she was calling him as a homing 
> 
>  

John looked up. There had been a sound. In spite of himself, his eyes drifted toward the window. It wasn’t even all that dark out yet, the last light still left at the horizon like a hollow in the deepening blue. No one would be so bold as to venture out right now, just past curfew, when the Sheriff was still making his rounds.    
  


He tried to continue:

>  
> 
> He felt that he could go as directly to the spot from which she was calling him as a homing pigeon to its cote. He woke from those dreams - dreams in which she stood before him

 

Harry was laughing, very loudly, probably on the phone with Clara - he could hear it muffled through the wall. How could anyone read with that sort of distraction? He got up and put a record on, and it started up:

_ Are you lonesome tonight? Are you feeling all right? _

And sat back down upon his bed:

 

> Dreams in which she stood before him pale and disheveled, imploring him, ‘Come, oh come-’

 

Momma and Harry did not question him when he had went straight up to his room after supper. It had surely been the heat. The light had seeped out of his room and a blue darkness had crept in to take its place. He reached over to his bedside table and turned on the lamp.  He looked up again, out the window: how quickly the sky darkened these days. 

 

> As surely oriented as an arrow in flight. Joan was the magnet, and he the steel.

 

_ Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare? Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there? _

It seemed as if he had been on the same page for hours. He had been re-reading these same words over and over again, “Island of the Hands.”  The introductory image of the story had been what captured his intention: a woman, graceful, beautiful, arms raised and hair flowing as if she were slipping into deep water, or perhaps materializing out of mist.  The words on the page blurred together, swimming in their own ocean before his eyes. Like being lost at storm, in an empty sea...

_ Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?  _

> Joan was the magnet, and he the steel.
> 
>  
> 
> But Joan 
> 
>  
> 
> But Joan was dead. 

 

_ Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight? _

 

Then came the knock at his window. 

 

He looked up, immediately. Outside his window, a dark figure sat, only the pale outline of his white hand clear as it pressed, fingers spread, against the screen and the glass. John’s stomach dropped low, low, he felt, and his heart was quick to follow close behind.  A cold chill down his spine, but then up leapt his heart, and the relief poured over him. There, the sudden surge in his veins and the urge to leap to his feet. The urge to run.

He was at the window in an instant.

Genuine surprise passed over Sherlock’s face, and then a smile - slowly widening, gleaming white teeth - an expression of unequivocal pleasure. John’s breath stuttered, and he felt like he had trouble catching it, although he had not exerted himself at all in that short distance. 

Instead he focused on pushing up the glass of the window.

“You’ve been waiting for me,” Sherlock said, voice warm with approval.

“I-” John began, heat seeping up his collar and into his cheeks. It wasn’t like that, he didn’t want Sherlock to think it was like that-

“Don’t try to deny it." Sherlock nodded towards John's bed. "There’s a magazine open on your pillow... you’re not reading it; you haven’t turned the page for hours."

John followed his gaze, felt himself flush deeper.

Sherlock continued. "The record on the turntable has stopped playing - yet you haven’t changed or replayed it. You’re not listening to it." He cocked his head, perched in the tree with nonchalant, feline grace. John was reminded of an illustration of a black panther in a storybook, prowling, with its moon-eyes glowing. He thought of a  _ tyger, tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night... _

"Well, I..."

"But you haven’t begun to prepare for bed yet,” Sherlock interrupted him. He fixed his eyes on John, eyes of arctic ice and stone. The black ink curls of his hair swept over his forehead, and John had to withhold a gasp. 

"You’re still mostly wearing your clothes from earlier in the day, minus the tie - you’re dressed for church, of course, today being Sunday. You’re wearing your nice slacks, probably one of the three pairs you own, reserved for holidays and special occasions-" his gaze sharpened, "- new, from the way they fit you, unlike your usually secondhand clothes.  Your shirt is open but you haven’t removed it, perhaps for some sake of propriety?"

Nervously, John raised a hand to his neck. He had an undershirt on underneath his thin cotton button-up yet Sherlock made him feel brazenly on display. 

"I can see the traces of sweat upon it, and despite the cool temperature of your room, you look flushed." A quick smirk. "Perhaps you weren’t feeling well, but you lack any other symptoms, so I suspect but there’s something else bothering you other than a simple physical illness."

Sherlock smoothly leaned in. If he got any closer, he'd be pressed against the mesh. John shivered. The strange boy seemed to fill up the window, a dark silhouette in the night sky, so that when John looked up at him, he blotted out the moon and the stars.

"Judging from what we’ve already discussed," Sherlock purred, "there’s something that preoccupies your thoughts and distracts you." 

So close, John couldn't help but notice the sharpness of his cheekbones, the pallor of his skin in the moonlight. The athletic shape of his body, hinted under his clothes.

"You need someone to talk to..." Sherlock's voice dropped lower. "Yet you haven’t approached your sister or your mother, which implies this is something of a more intimate nature that you’re not comfortable discussing with them, and you haven’t called up any of your friends - so, who else left but... me? You were waiting for me.”

Such pure relief washed over John, relief that Sherlock had said it all, guessed it all, in an instant, so that he did not have to admit such things himself. He was not even embarrassed at its accuracy - it was so much easier when Sherlock had already laid it all out for him. 

Sherlock was so much more...more  _ everything _ than John had remembered. He had only seen him in dreams for the past week, sketches of Sherlock reproduced by the mind’s eye -  mere ripples in comparison to the magnetic tide of his presence in real life.

“I...Gosh, that was brilliant,” John blurted out, unable to help his utterance of awe. 

Sherlock looked shocked at his reaction - that was the second time that night John had managed to surprise him, John noted, pride blooming in his chest like a red flower opening. 

And then Sherlock looked pleased. “Tell me more,” he said - a demand, not a request. His eyes bright with a hunger that John found impossible to deny. 

“That was...fantastic,” John said.

His eyes fell upon Sherlock’s white hand, and the casual strength with which he gripped the tree branch. He could see the curl of Sherlock’s fingers, the flexing tendons in that hand, and in spite of himself he wondered how that hand might feel upon skin, upon his skin, how it might grip him, somewhere such as his wrist or his arm or his waist -

“You’re incredible,” he was saying; his mouth babbling praise. He caught himself and noticed Sherlock looking at him - realized that Sherlock had likely been looking at him this entire time - and his face flamed with embarrassment. If Sherlock could see John’s skin flush in the nighttime blue-dark, could he also hear the pounding of his heart? If he could tell John’s state of mind just from the state of his room, then what could he see about the state of his heart, his wants? 

  
No, it was better not to go down that path. 

“You can tell me anything you like,” Sherlock encouraged. He seemed closer than he had ever been before; the only thing separating them was the thin insect screen.

“I’ve been seeing things,” John whispered. As if anybody might be listening in, or perhaps he did not want to hear the words himself. “You’re right...I don’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t know who to tell.” 

“Why don’t you let me in and we can talk about it?” Sherlock asked, voice surprisingly gentle. “For as long as you want.”

John bit his lip. His fingers itched to raise the window. It would be so easy. Who had written the rules, anyway? Who had decided that they must be put into place?

  
He couldn’t - shouldn’t - let Sherlock in, but it was difficult to reason out why. All his life he had tried his best to be a good boy, for his mother’s sake if nothing else, but what could be so bad about bending the rules, just this once?    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Are you lonesome tonight? ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cS5aCozhcA)


	19. Chapter 19

John took a deep breath, and pulled himself back from the ledge.

“You know I can’t,” he said. He curled his fingers against the windowsill; his short fingernails scratching against the eggshell white wood.

It was a very bad idea. He was scared of what he might do if Sherlock were to enter his bedroom, scared of what he might want.

That feeling that had been brewing, churning inside of him since the start - it was longing. He’d never given it a name until now; he hadn’t known what to name it. He knew he should not have felt such things, yet he could not help himself feeling them.  He could not help the thrill that shivered through him, nor the echo of pleasure in its wake.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” Sherlock said.

An image arose, unbidden: himself seated on Sherlock’s lap, Sherlock’s hands upon him, hands sliding down John’s chest, his hands gripping John’s thighs, John allowing himself to be spread apart, Sherlock’s mouth upon his neck-

John shuddered hard, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could block it out. He was stunned by the hot sensuality of it, the electric flutter in his stomach and the blossoming heat. It was not something he had ever dreamt about, or would have ever allowed himself to think about. It was not a thing he had known to want. He was so embarrassed he could have just died on the spot -his face must have been bright crimson.

“I haven’t-” he tried to deny. I couldn’t help it, any of it, he wanted to say.

“That’s all right,” Sherlock’s voice was soothing, low. He leaned in, so close that John thought he might feel his breath through the window. “I keep thinking about you, too.”

John, feeling a tight squeeze in his chest, forgot how to breathe. He could feel the grey mesh of the screen underneath his fingers, and could not recall when he had reached out to touch it. He was captivated by Sherlock - made captive by his words, his voice, his gaze. He supposed had always been captivated by him, ever since the very start.

He had never felt this way about anyone before, not even the girls he’d had crushes on throughout his young life. No one had ever made him feel like he had lightning crackling underneath his skin and storm brewing in the core of his body.

“John...I know you’re a bit afraid of me and I understand your hesitation,” Sherlock said, in velvety, gentle tones, “but you still answered when I knocked. You were waiting for me.”

Was fear the word for this feeling? The prickle along John’s neck, the rabbit-jump of excitement in his stomach and chest and throat; yes, he was afraid, not just for himself but for both of them.

“You want to know more than just what you’ve been told. You want something more than everything you know.”

Sherlock’s voice - low, conspiratorial - enveloped John like the dark curtain of night. The two of them complicit in their secrets. John had never dared dream of wanting more.

“Have you ever thought about what would happen to you, if you lived your life following the path that’s been laid out for you?” Sherlock continued. “Blindly following someone else’s rules?”

The future - what of it? He was still too young for that to be anything more than a hazy ‘someday.’ He would finish school, of course, because that was what was expected of him, but then what? There was no Great World War waiting for him, no great world stage on which he would be a soldier or a hero - and what did he want to do with his life?

“I suppose no one’s ever asked,” he admitted.

“Let me tell you,” said Sherlock. “You’ll graduate school, you’ll go to college - maybe you’ll become a doctor, because you want to help people. You might want to leave, you might dream of travel, but one day you’ll meet a girl, perhaps she’ll be a nurse, and you’ll get married. You’ll have a child or two, and settle down once again, just working your life away, in one of these places where nothing ever happens to you.”

His life laid out for him so plainly, brick by brick, as one builds a road, or perhaps a wall.

“You can live out your whole life and die here, in a little town like this - or in a suburb that’s identical to this one.”

Out there, beyond them both, was the quiet, empty street - devoid of life because of curfew. John thought of how he knew all the neighbors’ names and how they all knew each other’s business, how he knew everybody at school and everybody knew him, and how small it all was. It had been that way for as far back as he could remember, and would continue to be that way for as far as he could see.

The only person who was unknown, was Sherlock.

“You know as well as I do,” said Sherlock, “that there’s a part of you that wants something more than that.” His moonstone eyes burned with intensity, and John was caught by them, unable to look away.

“A part of you that you can’t help or control. You don’t get that from your momma, now do you?”

His father, and his endless wanderlust, his distant eyes always looking beyond the horizon, at something John could not see.  

“You’d never be happy and you’d always be wondering why, what could possibly be missing. Eventually you’d run off, unable to take it anymore, and if you didn’t, if you stayed because of your compulsion to do the right thing, to be good, you’d be slowly dying, drowning in the mundanity of it all, just like all these people around you, with their dull little lives. Suffocated by normality.”

“Stop,” John said, helplessly.

“Have you ever thought about what you want, John?” A siren call of a question, a silken trap.

“Yes, yes, of course I have.” _I want, I want -_ He dared not give it voice. It was a terrible thing he wanted, but what frightened him was how little he cared that it was sinful and bad.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” said Sherlock. “But there is _something_ , and you want it so badly it goes straight down to your bones.”

He glanced down to John’s mouth, which had suddenly become desert-dry. John felt his voice lost to the badlands. His heart lost to - something.

The want that he could not name, the strange ache he’d known ever since he’d met Sherlock, his heart pulsed with it, the systole and the diastole.

“Do you believe in God, John?”

John cleared his throat. “Of course I do -” he mustered.

“But what do you believe? That there’s some unseen force watching over you, judging you? Waiting to punish you for your perceived sins?”

Every Sunday, the talk of hellfire and to beware the Devil; terrors that seemed so real when he was sat in the hardness of the wooden pew, but ridiculous now as Sherlock scoffed.

“Is it the fear that keeps you believing? That’s no way to live. There’s so much you can have, that you don’t know you could have, if only you weren’t afraid. Fear is just another way to control you.”

Surely this was blasphemy.  John had never heard anyone talk in such a shocking manner. Yet...he’d never had proof of God, or proof otherwise. All he knew was that he’d always been taught to believe. He had never been allowed to question.

“God was created by man, to fend off the unknown; a being born from fear,” Sherlock intoned; as convincing as any preacher. Perhaps more so, for he spoke of rationality, rather than religion. “Do not let it rule you.”

Quiet, all around them - the night, the house, silent with sleep. No sound of crickets, the insects having passed on with the death of summer, only the whisper of the wind in the trees.  Even the lights in the neighborhood had gone dark, and the stars flickered out of existence.

In that moment there was no God, only Sherlock’s eyes wide and black as an abyss; his voice cocooning them both.

 _“John,_ ” Sherlock said, his name so quiet, almost reverent, like a prayer upon those faintly pink lips. “You won’t be struck down by lightning if you were to take your crucifix off the wall, you know. You don’t need that to watch over you.”

He raised his hand, and placed it upon the screen. Their hands met, touching, palm to palm. Sherlock’s cool skin was touching John’s, and it was all John could feel, despite the wire mesh between them - Sherlock’s touch against his own heated palm. An electric tingle shivered through him, as if the two of them together completed a circuit. Here: the beginning, the end.

“Open the window, John,” Sherlock coaxed. “I promise I won’t come in.”

John swallowed.

“All right,” he said, relenting.

He pulled his hand away so that he could use both hands to release the latches, and then he was pushing up the screen. The black night seemed to roll in, cool breeze over his bared skin, his heated face, and now there was no more barrier between them.

“You need to stop coming here,” John said, one last desperate attempt at reason. His hands were on the ledge as he pleaded his case, leaning towards Sherlock even as he beseeched him.  “My life was fine before I met you. Now I don’t even know who I am anymore.”  His voice sounded small, even to himself.

“I know who you are,” came Sherlock’s smooth reply.

He reached out.  He pulled John forward.

And then he kissed him.

Sherlock’s lips were cool against his, cold from the night air, surprisingly soft. John was being kissed, at last, for the first time, and the ache deep down in the marrow of his bones became a surge: at once both rushing satisfaction and desire for more, so much more.

John made a soft sound that was foreign to himself and reached out, fisted his hand into Sherlock’s shirt to hold onto him, both to steady himself and to prevent him from pulling away. He felt as if thunder were rolling inside of him. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, Sherlock’s cool fingers stroking his cheek, Sherlock’s lips pressed gently against his own. The night deep and dark around them, Sherlock’s presence blotting out moon and stars and God Himself.  

When they separated, it was Sherlock who pulled away, and John followed him, instinctively, as steel drawn to a magnet. John with his hand on Sherlock’s chest, his own heart in his throat, until Sherlock’s cool fingers were wrapping around his hand, to gently peel him away.

“Don’t lie to yourself anymore,” said Sherlock, glancing at the cross upon the wall. “Think about what you really want.”

He brushed the back of his fingers over John’s heated cheek, another fleeting touch that didn’t last nearly long enough.

 

His parting words lingered with John long after he was gone:

  
“You don’t know what you could have, if only you had the courage to ask for it.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *lies down* _(:3」∠)_
> 
>  
> 
> [small announcement, to be deleted later:] Guys, there's gonna be a week hiatus coming up so that everyone who ordered a book can get their PDFs (which are still being put together - but we're aiming for Monday) and have the advantage of reading the finished story first. There's about 2.5 parts left in the story and it might ruin your enjoyment if I break them up, so tune back in next week for the THRILLING CONCLUSION of this sordid little tale. 
> 
> If you have any questions, you can find me on my tumblr: http://traumachu.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you everyone for all your support and being so fun and amazing!!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _aaaaaaaand we're back!_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (pls message me on tumbls if you did not get your pdf!! traumachu.tumblr.com )

 

Up and down the street, the bells were ringing.

Chiming, overlapping, trilling: every door in the neighborhood was open, every house alive with the sound. The mothers stood on their porches, ringing, ringing golden bells, hailing their children back. Their voices joined together, chanting, _“Time to come home, come home, time to come inside, inside!”_

The changing of the hours: this familiar sound. Autumn was in the air with its apple crispness and the snap of cold, the smoky firewood scent of impending winter. In the distance, a siren wailed and wailed.

Inside his room, John stared at the mirror, and ran the comb through his hair once again. He couldn’t get his hair to settle down, and he’d changed his shirt three times already. He _had_ been mindful to choose a pair of casual slacks, however, now that he knew that was a point of judgment.

And once again, without really thinking about it, he gently touched his own lips.

He could hardly remember what had happened at school that day, what classes he’d gone to, if he’d learned anything. He’d looked down at the lines of notebook paper, at the Battle of Georgetown and at Shakespeare, at all those letter equations and a diagram of the cell,  and all he could think about was the touch of Sherlock’s lips on his own.

He had walked through his day as if in a trance - who had he spoken to? What things had he done? Nothing could touch him. Only the prickling buzz underneath his skin, like the vibrating hum of cicadas at the end of summer. The now-familiar heaviness in his stomach.  His heart fluttered in his chest every time he thought about it: Sherlock’s lips on his, his fingertips against John’s own cheek - gentle. How unexpectedly soft and welcoming Sherlock’s mouth had been.

He had leaned out of the window far enough to fall, and the swoop in his stomach was like he already was falling, with only Sherlock there to catch him, to pull him out into the night.  

He’d gotten hard in math class thinking about it. In between the applications of _y = mx + b_ and the chalk tapping away on the chalkboard and all the figures of lines and his teacher’s droning voice John felt the heat between his legs and the itch at the base of his spine, the sudden fullness and aching. It was impossible to think. He was aware of the subtle friction of his trousers - how, when his fingers clenched on his thigh, it dragged, just barely- over him. As if hypnotized by the sensation, he could not stop doing it, struggling only to control his breathing.

No one noticed.

He was invisible. Invincible. Heady with exhilaration, the excitement of getting away with something so wrong.

Then, a knock on glass. John turned, and jolted: there was Sherlock’s sly face at the classroom door, peering in at him through the window. Seeing all. He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again, it was Bill waving at him, pulling a face. John lifted a hand in a feeble greeting back, face burning with embarrassment. Spent the rest of the class staring at his treacherous hand, the sweaty palm. Idle. The devil’s plaything.

Still, he did not stop the gentle flutter of fingers over his mouth, nor the tracing of his lips with the pink rubber end of his pencil.

 

He was wound up tighter than he had ever been before, like his insides were all twisted round and round. He felt full of fizz and pressure, like a bottle rocket waiting to go off, and no one could see it.

 

Now he was in his room, arranging and re-arranging his things. He didn’t want it to necessarily be too neat, like some kinda square, but he didn’t want Sherlock to think he was a slob, either. The bed was neat and tidy, sheets and covers tucked in with the hospital corners just as Momma had taught him.  

He laid out all his favorite records, arranging them in a careful fan next to the record player. And then, once he stepped back and took a proper look at it, he messed it up again.

He glanced over, across the room, to the crucifix on the wall.

The cross hung upside-down.

That wasn’t possible.

Perhaps it had swung around on its nail, or something. That must have been it. He put down the record he’d been holding, and walked over to the cross to fix it.

And then paused.

The cross was the right way up. It had, of course, always hung the right way up. As John looked up at it, he was overcome with the unnerving sensation that he was being watched. The cold prickle on his neck, spider-legs of dread crawling up his spine.

He resisted the urge to turn around and look. What would he see if he looked? There was nothing there. He was giving himself the heebie-jeebies, that was all. The house was too quiet, since Harry was at Clara’s for the night and his mother working a double shift. But it wasn’t like he’d never been home alone before.

Instead he looked at himself in the mirror, once again. His hair had stayed neat, where he’d combed it down. He looked astonishingly well for someone who had been missing as much sleep as he had; there was even a healthy pink flush in his cheeks. Behind him, in the mirror, was his bedroom. Comforting, familiar, everything in its place: the perfectly made bed, the lamp, his bookcase, the record player, the locked door, the closed window.  

He looked back up. The cross was the right way up, just as it had always been. The eyes of Jesus were painted blue, very blue, with a dot of black for the pupil and an even tinier dot of white for the shine. John could see that they’d even painted on eyelashes. They must have used a very tiny brush.

He reached up and took the crucifix down.

He’d never picked it up before and it surprised him with its heaviness. He held it for a few awkward moments, wondering where one would even store a crucifix - not like he could just put it in his closet, after all - before he opened his underwear drawer and shoved it inside without looking at it anymore.

The wall now looked strange in its emptiness. The nail remained as a black dot, like a fly floating in milk; a sea of white.

John stared up at the wall, body hot all over with his rebellion.  His heart pounding with the illicit thrill of doing something he shouldn’t have. He’d been afraid for so long, and for what? Nothing had happened. As he’d known nothing would happen. There was no lightning strike, no clap of thunder from God. Sherlock was right, of course, and John felt the shame drain from him like water through a sieve.

He looked at himself once again at the mirror and smiled at his reflection. Then he frowned. His hair was _too_ neat, _too_ goody-two-shoes - that wasn’t who he was. He reached up with a hand and tousled it quickly, before finger-combing it back into place. There. Much better.

 

 _Tap tap tap,_ went the window.

 

John turned, an inexplicable dread thudding in his heart. Then he saw Sherlock’s face, and was struck, suddenly, by his sharpness, his peculiar beauty, his wicked good looks - not for the first time, but the first time he allowed himself to think such things - and gasped softly.  Sherlock smiled a (gently) feral smile, at him, just for him, and a pang of want strummed a chord through his chest, and a feeling like warm, sticky caramel trickled down his insides.

“Sherlock!” John said, and hurried over to the window almost on reflex. (When had it gotten so dark? It didn’t matter.) He pushed the glass up. He could hear himself, feel himself, once again, almost breathless. He didn’t care.

“Hey,” said Sherlock, amused. He peered past John, looking at his carefully rearranged room: the straightened bookcase, the slightly-disturbed records laid out next to the record player showing off his taste in music, the neatly-made bed. John felt himself exposed, his room so methodically examined - as if Sherlock were picking him apart piece by piece. Sherlock’s eyes lingered upon the empty space where the crucifix used to hang, and his smile grew.

And then his gaze turned to John. John could feel it sweep over him - the heavy caress of it over his skin, taking in his ruffled hair, his nice shirt, his casual slacks, and then up his body again, and the sweep of heat that followed. In his cheeks and in his chest and low in his stomach and in places even more intimate.   

The look in Sherlock’s eyes was glittering, triumphant. John’s skin flushed all over, he could feel the hot rush of blood throughout his body, arteries to veins to capillaries, hear each pulse of own pounding heart. He was barely breathing.

Sherlock’s smile was sharp, his eyes jewel-bright. “Are you ready to ask for it, then? What you want?”

A busy thrumming inside of him. John bit his lip.  He felt himself all wound up, like a top about to spin out. Nobody could stay in this state forever; it was madness. And he could not help looking down at Sherlock’s mouth, remember how it had felt to have those soft lips pressed against his own, that heart-curling warmth and pleasure, how it might feel, if they could do it again. And again. He wanted to find out.

His mouth opened, almost of its own accord, and a soft  “ _Yeah,_ ” breathed out.

He reached out, with both hands. Heart pounding. A surge of feeling, a sense of inevitability. Something dark and yearning had been awakened inside of him; ever since that first meeting, that strange night, the sleek car with its yellow headlights.  His fate sealed with the closing of a car door.

He pushed up the screen.

The October night rushed in, with its cool caress, the rich smell of wet fallen leaves. The crisp dark night with its smoke-whisps of clouds and all its stars. John shivered at the chill of the wind; his skin prickling with delicate goosebumps.

All his wants, these simmering, shimmering feelings, brewing all this time, had now come to a boil. He was overflowing, and it must come pouring out.

John swallowed.

“Do you wanna come in?” he asked.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face, sweet honey-drip slow, smooth as cream. His eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. He stretched, shifted, practically preening.

  
“Oh, John,” Sherlock purred. “I’d love to.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shi-


	21. Chapter 21

 

John stepped back, and, he let him in.

 

The older boy poured into the room like a shadow - motions graceful and fluid. When he stood up he seemed to unfold; he was shockingly tall. His mere presence enveloped everything. He took up the corner where he stood, making John’s room appear suddenly too small. John gasped, in spite of himself, instinctively taking another step back. He’d never seen Sherlock at his full height before. He hadn’t expected him to be so much, well, bigger, on top of everything else.

Sherlock, looming over him, noticed his reaction.

“John,” he said, tone slightly hurt, just ever so reproachful. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Of course not,” John replied defensively, although it wasn’t entirely untrue.

The way Sherlock took up space reminded John, again, of a storybook panther, prowling in the night, black and languid as ink. Fear and excitement fluttered inside of him. He had to make a move - Sherlock stood tall before him, waiting, watching with his panther-eyes. Again, that feeling of inexplicable dread, a voice inside that said _run._ Sherlock was in his room, no more barriers between them. Like something uncaged.  

John looked up at him, and steeled himself. He had always been brave, unafraid. He took a step forward, and didn’t tremble, although he had the dizzying feeling of taking a footstep towards a cliff. As when one looks down from a great height and is overcome with the impulse to jump. And another step, and another - moving both too slow and too quickly, as if in a dream.

In his dreams, Sherlock had gone for his throat. And John had woken up shuddering and wanting…

And then he was there, Sherlock was right there, watching him with amused curiosity. This was real. John was awake, no longer dreaming. He reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, his breath and his heart in his throat. The sting of longing inside of him, the alluring venom of desire. He wanted to be kissed again. He tilted his face up...

The sound of his pulse in his own ears drowned out anything else, and then Sherlock drowned out everything else, as he took John into his arms.

Sherlock’s lips were cool, again, from the autumn night. The kiss was as gentle as before, but it was more real, dangerous, now that he could feel the strength of Sherlock’s arms around him, feel the cool leather of his jacket, smell it, feel Sherlock’s chest hard and solid against his. John’s belly swooped with the sensation of falling and this time there was no way out.

The kiss deepened. Sherlock’s lips cradling his, and his tongue- first flickering, and then slipping into John’s mouth. His tongue was cold, too, as if he’d been sucking on ice cubes just a minute ago, an image that made John shiver first and then run hot.   

He pulled back, both from surprise and the need to attempt to get a hold of himself. “You’re so cold,” he breathed.

Sherlock smiled down at him, squeezing him lightly in his arms. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll warm me up soon.”

He kissed John again, the sensation eclipsing all else. No room for thoughts or worries. He tasted like cigarettes and the crisp firewood scent of winter, of things burning. Something strange underneath all that that reminded John of dying roses, a perfumed staleness that he couldn’t identify. Liquid, silken kisses that made John dizzy with the heat and ache of his own body, that made him forget how to move, how to breathe, how to keep himself from making tiny strange noises of wanting.  

His world shifted and he found himself on his back, lain down on the softness of his own bed, without remembering how they got there. He certainly didn’t remember moving from point A to point B. Then again, with Sherlock looming over him, with one cool pale hand sliding up his shirt, John could barely remember his own name.

He could not stop panting. He was surrounded by Sherlock on all sides; his knees on either side of John’s thighs, Sherlock’s arm curled around his head, caging him in.  John had one hand clutching at the leather of his jacket - whether to keep him close or to keep him at bay, John could not say - his hand tense and still. His whole body was trembling with tense stillness.

This close, he could see flecks of green in Sherlock’s eyes, like chips of broken bottle glass. The light in his bedroom glowing above them formed a yellow halo around Sherlock’s dark hair.  He could see the shine of his own saliva on Sherlock’s lips. And then he saw nothing as he closed his eyes, mouth opening for another kiss.

Sherlock’s hands were all over his body. Touching him wherever they could reach, over his hair, his neck, his chest, his arms. Exploring him, running all over, wandering all over, up underneath his shirt, cool hands on his bare skin, skimming over all the sensitive parts of him, squeezing him as if trying to feel him out.

Sherlock’s tongue was inside his mouth and Sherlock’s hands seemed to be everywhere, as if they wanted to probe every crevice of his body, touching and rubbing him in too many places, and John’s skin was tingling, buzzing all over with too much sensation. Greedy. All-consuming. As if Sherlock couldn’t get enough of him. Touching, squeezing, running up and down the sensitive insides of his thighs, making him shudder with frightening intensity; he could feel himself twitch and leak inside his pants, and it was too much, he was spiralling out of control.  

John caught Sherlock’s wrist in an attempt to guide his hand back to some safer place, but he kept squeezing and rubbing as if he hadn’t felt John’s touch at all. He was so strong.

Finally John pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder, and it was like pushing at solid marble. Panic flashed through him - until Sherlock pulled back, and John could breathe again.

“Sherlock-” John panted. It was like he’d just come out from under deep water.  

Sherlock’s face was so close; eyes filled with heat. John’s voice shriveled up in his throat. Ice and broken glass eyes. The expression on his face was pure hunger, needy and honed. As though Sherlock might like to devour him whole. John’s breath caught, his pulse quickened, as with terror, while a golden honeylike pleasure pooled in his belly. He was so hard he could feel it pressing against the zip of his trousers.

“What is it, John?”

“I...I don’t know how to say this,” John began. He couldn’t find the words. His head was swimming; it was all happening too quickly and he didn’t know _what_ was meant to happen. What happened after kissing?  Sex Ed had been woefully insufficient for...this.  He felt vastly unprepared, and incredibly uncool. Perhaps Sherlock was moving so quickly because he had certain _expectations,_  and he assumed John would be able to keep up, but John’s pulse was hopped up, heart skittering, and Sherlock was still looking at him with such predatory intent, and John admitted, blurted out,  “I’ve never...you know, with a boy before.”

And he hoped Sherlock knew what he meant, because he sure as heck didn’t.

“John,” Sherlock said. “I _know_ you’re a virgin. You’d never even kissed anyone before me.”

Was it that obvious? John flushed, embarrassed by both Sherlock’s upfrontness and his own inexperience. Up until last night, the thought of even kissing a boy was beyond his imagination. And now they were in bed, with Sherlock on top of him, pressing into him, and a great blank space in John’s knowledge as to what could possibly come next.  

“You’re right,” John admitted. “Last night. That was my first kiss, last night.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened around him. “I’m honored,” he said, voice deep and silken. John searched his face for derision and found none, only the molten intensity of his gaze. The distracting feather-light touch of Sherlock’s fingers tracing, over the small of his back, the vertebrae of his lower spine, gently petting wherever he could reach. As if he could not stop touching, even now. John’s skin tingled all over with the stimulation, that insect buzz. His breath hitched.

“Were you saving it for someone else?” Sherlock asked him.

“No!” John denied, with such immediacy and force that Sherlock smirked. Of course he’d only been teasing. John felt hot with indignation and annoyance and embarrassment but worst of all was the heat between his legs, the tugging in his gut. He wanted to push Sherlock off but not more than he wanted to stay just like this, and perhaps kiss some more.

“Then I don't see the problem,” said Sherlock, and kissed John again as if only to prove that he could. It was easy, then, to forget protests, to give up those words of _wait_ and _don’t_ over in soft offerings of lips and tongue.

Sherlock pulled back, panting lightly, sitting up. In one fluid motion, he shrugged off his leather jacket, dropping it onto the floor. In the yellow light of the bedroom, John could see the flex of Sherlock’s muscles underneath the thin cotton tee shirt, the peak of his nipples, hard. John swallowed, mouth dry as the Sahara. When Sherlock looked down at him, he was mesmerized by the look in his eyes.  The way that a bird must feel, when it is confronted with the hypnotic gaze of a cobra. Pinned down. Trapped. He felt his own pulse as a fluttering of wings, beating against the bone cage of his ribs.

Sherlock peeled off his tee shirt like shedding a second skin, and John forgot how to breathe. Sherlock resembled a sculpture, pale as alabaster, smooth, perfect skin and lean muscles all over: his corded arms, his broad chest, the flat planes of his stomach.

John opened his mouth but nothing came out; he’d forgotten words, language - especially when Sherlock smirked at his reaction. It didn’t matter. In the next moment Sherlock was over him once again, blanketing him with his body. He poured over John with renewed vigor.

His mouth at John’s throat, at his throat - Just like in his dreams. But it was real now, the touch of Sherlock’s lips, his mouth, his tongue, the sharp scrape of teeth that made John gasp and shudder. The electric shock of pleasure, a convulsion - a sudden squeeze between his legs and Sherlock’s voice in his ear murmuring, “Shh, shh, not yet, John,” and the heady pulse, the throb, of delayed pleasure.

Not yet, not yet, was what John wanted to say. He couldn’t speak through the kisses but once again it was happening too fast, kicked into high gear: Sherlock’s hands all over him, stripping him of his clothes, undressing him, an unveiling that John could not see, only feel. Taking his clothes from him with ease.

Sherlock’s hands upon his bare shoulders and then down his chest, rubbing, squeezing. Sherlock’s hands at his trousers, fingers skimming over his hips, grabbing his hips, squeezing his buttocks, John could barely think about what was happening, only that Sherlock’s hands felt so big, seemed to cover so much so easily, and then there was Sherlock’s cool tongue sliding inside his mouth. Sherlock’s hands at his nipples, tingling sensation where he’d never been touched before,  pulling forth muffled whimpers and sounds John didn’t recognize as himself.

But between his legs, he was hard, aching, and wet, first nudging, then pressed against Sherlock’s stomach, his smooth, bare skin.

 

Suddenly, darkness. The room plunged into night.

 

The lights had all gone out.

A power outage? No, no….Sherlock must have reached over and turned out the lights. He must have.

In the darkness it was so real, so intimate. The press of their bodies together, Sherlock’s weight on top of him, his bare skin cool on top of John’s heated skin, and the nudge against his inner thigh that John suddenly comprehended as Sherlock’s hardness, his erect -

“Sherlock, wait,” John said, breathless, pulling back. He felt dizzy, almost, hot all over. Just like a flick being switched he was suddenly aware of his own nudity; he’d never been naked like this before, even in the gym showers and the boys’ locker room everyone dutifully averted their eyes. And strangely, in the dark, it seemed like he could feel Sherlock’s eyes even more, could see them bright, burning when they looked at him. He felt too exposed, vulnerable, flushed pink all over and wanting and embarrassed by it all. It was too much, too soon. 

“I’m not sure about this,” John admitted. Still panting, feeling weird, scared and wrong. He’d only wanted kissing, really, had only thought so far. He had no idea what Sherlock intended to do, what he wanted, only that it was sinful and bad and wrong, so forbidden that John had no comprehension of it.

There was a tightness in Sherlock’s eyes, a flare of need, but his voice was gentle. “All right, all right,” he said. He pulled back, rolled over onto the bed, and took John into his arms.  

Still so surrounded by Sherlock, entrapped in the circle of his arms. But John couldn’t - didn’t want to - break away. “Shh,” said Sherlock, shushing him like gentling a calf. “I’ll slow down.”

His hands on John’s back, stroking over his skin. Long, broad strokes of comfort, touches that warmed John despite the coolness of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock’s voice in his ear:

“ _John,_ ” that weird pull when Sherlock said his name, the way his world narrowed to just Sherlock’s arms and his touches, and darkness all around them - “I want to be with you. I want to be so close to you. You smell so good. You feel so good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

His fingers soothing through John’s hair, all manner of petting. These slow, gentle touches that made John want to melt into them in spite of himself.

“You’ve come so far, you mustn’t back down now,” Sherlock coaxed, fingers trailing down John’s neck. “We won’t get another chance like this; your mother and your sister are gone, and I know that’s why you waited, that’s why you chose tonight.”

Comforting touches all over John’s skin, that made him tingle pleasantly.  He was at once soothed and glowing, lit up from the inside.

“This is what’s meant to happen. I asked you what you wanted, and you let me in.”

Sherlock’s lips were brushing against his ear, each word like a kiss, “You might not have the words for it, you might not know the mechanics of it, but there are things you feel, you _want_ that you’ve been wanting for a very long time. You don’t need experience to know desire.”

His breath like autumn, that voice so low and close as if the words were coming from inside John’s head,  “You want me, even if you haven’t the words for it.  The way I make you feel.”

That insidious whisper, Sherlock’s tightening embrace, the words blooming inside John’s brain, “You’ve wanted this for a long time - right from the very first moment we met. You didn’t know it, but I could always see it in you,  from the very start. You simply didn’t know how to ask. You were meant for this. For me. This is inevitable.”

_Inevitable._  John felt himself at the cliff’s edge, about to fall into the unknown. He was on the edge of uncharted waters. But he knew, already, there was no stopping, he’d already gone too far, it was, as Sherlock said-

“John,” Sherlock said, and cupped his face with one hand. His eyes suddenly so dark, his skin almost glowing, moon-drenched in the darkness. He ran his thumb over John’s lower lip - smearing the wetness of saliva, his and John’s mixed together. “This is what you want.”

Sherlock’s other hand skimmed over him, down his body, between them, and it was, it was touching, pressing, at the tip of John’s erection, the newness of being touched by someone making John jolt, shudder, moan, “Yeah,” and again, that whimpering sound. Sweet sticky ichor of his desire spilling clear. Then no words because Sherlock’s thumb was pushing into his mouth, and John opened for him, yielding, hot, suckling at it as Sherlock rubbed his thumb along John’s tongue, feeling its soft wetness and John leaked, whimpering, into Sherlock’s hand.

There was no escape, no turning back.

Sherlock’s mouth at his throat, nuzzling, scraping his teeth, chuckling at John’s gasp, the keening sound he made, as if to say _“See? We can’t stop now, who were you trying to kid?”_ John’s own body making a mockery of his protests.

His own body bucking, rabbit-trembling underneath Sherlock as he sucked nipping kisses down John’s chest and stomach. Over both nipples and then the soft, sensitive underbelly of him. The sharp sting of a little nip and followed by tender wetness and suckling warmth, each kiss a red bloom of pleasure.

And lower still - Sherlock’s hands spreading his thighs open, John spreading for him as if on instinct, so easily. A gasp - then almost a shout - when Sherlock’s tongue lapped at the head of his... his cock - that sensitive and wet place. John clapped a hand to his own mouth, mortified but unable to stop the sounds otherwise - the whole neighborhood would hear him.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock sternly, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away, pinned it down to the bed. His grip was iron. John tried to tug at it and found that his sham of a struggle was useless, and what was worse, that only excited him more.

“I want to hear all the noises you can make,” said Sherlock. Yes, that roiling feeling in his stomach, that was excitement.

Sherlock’s mouth, sucking and nipping at his sensitive inner thigh. He was sucking hard enough to leave bruises. Bruises. In the shape of his mouth, blue and purpling, like coins, like rose petals, the blood rising to the surface of John’s skin. Bruises, from the capillaries bursting, from the bleeding under his skin.   Blood-

 

But it felt good; deliriously good. The scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet, soothing touch of his tongue on the smooth sensitive skin of John’s inner thigh. 

The moans fell out of John’s mouth like golden coins, rich, tumbling, unrestrained.  Press of Sherlock’s hand on his wrist, reminder to stay, and then hands on his thighs, spreading him open, keeping him open, exposed.  

When he looked down he could see Sherlock’s dark head bent over him, making soft wet satisfied groans like an animal at the kill. His tongue, his mouth was everywhere, licking and wet. It was, it was, licking him, somewhere - so secret and dirty that John could never have comprehended it. Sherlock’s tongue all over his thighs and then in between his cheeks, at his -

Slippery and wet and pushing into him. John jolted, gasped, and his body jerked purely from the shock but Sherlock’s hands were keeping his thighs open. Wetness, so soft, slippery and sinful and so filthy and good, slithering inside of him in a way that made him whimper with the shameful pleasure of it.  

Then-

A breach.  Something firmer, slender - fingers. At first just one, slippery with something, pushing into him, inside of him, entering him, opening a place that John didn’t think could open, he didn’t know you could enter.

“Sherlock-” John said, strangled little sound. But it was too late, now, to say stop. He’d agreed, hadn’t he? He had moaned and he had nodded, and even now he was hot all over, and hard, twitching wet at the strange slippery sliding feeling, in and out.

Then two fingers, too quick, slick, so much wrongness, and Sherlock’s mouth sucking at his thigh, warmth blooming out from that spot. John keened and bucked but there was no getting away from it. The stretch inside of him so strange, that ache, but no real pain. Two fingers rubbing inside of him, probing, pushing in.

Deep inside of him, and then, a sensation that flashed through John like lightning, like brightness and electricity and storm inside of him, making him shiver hard. And then again. Mewling sounds escaped him. Too much sensation to be embarrassed, couldn’t think with Sherlock’s fingers inside of him, couldn’t comprehend with Sherlock’s mouth upon him.

 

Saliva filled his mouth, fog filled his mind. And in his body, a pulsating heat, an insistent throb. Spurt of fluid from the tip of him. He was covered with a sheen of sweat and terrified, trembling, stretched open, writhing, lost. No way to run away from the sensation, could only sob and give in to the bright white flashes.

 

In and out and out and in. There were three - or was it four? - fingers inside of him. He was open, wet, pliant, taking it all easily. No real hurt. When had this happened? John wanted to sob from not knowing. Sickly wet sounds accompanied each thrust. What was happening? Moaning filled the room. Slowly he realized that was his own voice. His mouth was open and from his throat the sounds poured out.  

 

And then emptiness. John gasped with loss, the feeling of fingers slipping out.  Sherlock’s hands turning him over onto his stomach. Those same hands running down his back, gripping him possessively. Fingers painting slick trails down his skin, burn of shame at knowing what that slickness was. Sherlock’s hands upon his buttocks, the pressure of his thumbs, kneading him, then spreading him open. The night air cool on the wetness of that open, vulnerable place, his...his hole. John whimpered, buried his face into the pillow out of embarrassment at being so exposed.  Deep inside of him, an ache, an itch he didn’t understand. 

The terror of not knowing what came next but suddenly guessing at how it worked. John’s breath caught in his throat at the epiphany. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes upon him, watching him, hiss of breath at how he looked, held open. Burning inside John’s chest, heat in his face, his heart hammering away -  like he might die of embarrassment, of anticipation, of fever-heat.

There was a blunt pressure - there - where he was held open. Small feeble whine with the feeling; thickness behind him. And big, bigger than he’d thought, it felt too big, impossible to fit, but Sherlock was unrelenting, insistent. Suddenly there was a give, and his mouth split open with a keening noise, as his body yielded, split - he was being split open, like ripe fruit. Juice dribbling. Spit in his mouth. Tears in his eyes.

Sherlock pushing in, too much, too quickly, the burn and the stretch and the cleaving of John’s virgin body. John’s throat felt raw; felt rawness inside of him -something so hard pushing deep, all the way up into the core of him.  It was inside of him, forcing him open. Split open, from his belly to the base of his throat. John clutched at his pillow, something, anything, for an anchor, for comfort. Then Sherlock’s body on top of his, completely wrapping him up, kissing and nuzzling and nipping at his neck, cool press of skin against his, as Sherlock all around him, surrounding, his hungry murmurs of, “ _John, John, John,”_ and oh, oh.

 oh.

The gravity of Sherlock, the weight of him, his larger mass, entirely surrounding John, holding him down. Heavy and immovable and stone-solid. There was no way to move, nowhere to go. No escape from this. Flutter in John’s stomach and gasp in his throat, spurt of fluid when Sherlock rocked into him. It felt horribly good to be restrained, body lighting up with shameful excitement. His brain misinterpreting the signals of pain and pleasure, the wires crossed inside, he was all mixed up and wrong inside, and Sherlock was licking the side of his throat, was kissing his ear, as he rocked into him, and John was whining, wanting. Sherlock was inescapable.

Rocking, and then small shifting movements, in and out. The tightness of his body was giving away, he was opening, yielding. Hot, whimpering. His body opening more and more, need unfurling in the pit of his stomach, dark flower blooming. Slick slide out and then the easy glide back in. And again. Sherlock moving into him, inside him, and he was so close, closer than John had thought possible, climbing right up inside of him, his cock pushing into the softness of his organs, rearranging his insides. John’s face pushed against his pillow, clutching at it, at the sheets, the linen summer humid and damp from his panting breath, his sweat, his open mouth.

Sherlock’s cock inside of him, the force of Sherlock’s body pushing into him, hips against the curve of his backside, Sherlock’s mouth against John’s ear, lips kissing his hair, his hands all over John’s body, clutching, squeezing. It was so big, it was inside him, it was _inside him_ \- all the way in deep where he thought nothing could ever go. The pain still there but it had, transformed, into sensation. Between his legs he was painfully hard, and now his body had become accepting, insides fluttering, clinging to the pull and drag of it, the rub of it against that place inside of him that made him spark white-hot. He was so hot, he was a flame, flickering with pleasure with every jolt, every push, wanting to cry, to sob, but in a good way.  

A whisper in his ear that he felt more than heard, as a rumble through his mind: “Mine, you’re mine.” Deep velvet growl, animal hiss of satisfaction. John nodded against the pillow, barely understanding.  The heat and pleasure filled his brain with buzzing, with fever. His whole world darkness and Sherlock’s arms around him and Sherlock’s mouth on his skin and and Sherlock’s voice in his ear and Sherlock’s cock inside of him, filling him completely. Sherlock’s hand on his throat, like a collar around his neck, putting just enough pressure on it to stifle John’s gasps. He was helpless, owned. A taking. A claiming.

Those thrusts - filthy and bad and right where he needed it, cleaving him open. He was dripping wet. The weight of Sherlock’s body pressing him down into the bed, held so tightly that he couldn’t move, he was completely enveloped, surrounded, invaded, and with every hard shove of cock inside of him his peaked hard nipples and his dick rubbed, rubbed against his own sheets.

The pressure on his throat increased and John’s brain sparked bright blue, and he felt the thrusts inside of him as deep pleasure that reverberated down to the red marrow of his bones. Too much, too much, he was trembling, panting, sweaty, clenching around the hardness inside of him. Shuddering hard and strangled keening sound, cut off suddenly by Sherlock’s hand covering his mouth, his wet mouth open against Sherlock’s palm as he spasmed and spilled white all over the sheets.

He was ensnared by Sherlock all around him, cradled in the cage of his arms. He was still hard in spite of the burst. He was being fucked into still, his own white release smeared onto his stomach, rubbed into his skin by the motion. Sherlock felt so big around him, his limbs everywhere, his hands everywhere, so full inside of John that it stretched and ached all over again, like he’d increased in size. Pinpricks of pain on John’s thighs, his hips, his chest and his vulnerable throat, hot needles of sensation. John felt so small and strangely fragile, suddenly aware of the fact that he was made only of soft flesh and white bone and thin skin and a network of veins. Sherlock could rip him apart.

 

A rush of terror, stifled scream in his throat, and he was twitching, another pulse of thin fluid wrung out of him. Then Sherlock’s voice was in his ear, shushing him, “Shh, shh, _John,_ ” that strange croon of his name that lulled him, Sherlock’s hands gentle upon him, petting him, and - it was just as before. His hips had stilled in their movement, John’s mouth was uncovered, and Sherlock was simply nuzzling the side of his face, moving down to that sensitive place on his throat that made John shiver, no reason to fear.  The place of dreams.

 

“I want to see you,” said Sherlock. He pulled back, pulled out, and with that withdrawal he wrenched a feeble soft noise from John’s lips just as the head of his dick caught on the rim of his hole, before that was tugged out as well. John felt empty, open without it. Not so tight anymore. With equal parts horror and pride, he thought, I might never be the same.

Sherlock rolled him over, so easily, as if he weighed nothing at all. Post-release John felt himself strangely light; head full of heat and air. The feeling inside like he’d been hollowed out. He ached, all over, with strange little pains as he was shifted and moved, on his chest and stomach and a throb on his inner thigh. But Sherlock had only   kissed-

 

Sherlock was looming over him, spreading him again, looking at him, hissing with satisfaction at what he’d done. John could see his face now, could see that predatory glint in his eyes and in the darkness, a slow spread of a smile, all gleaming

( _sharp_ )

white teeth. Something about his expression made John want to cover his eyes, but he didn’t, because Sherlock was already tugging his wrist away, saying, “John, look at me, I want to see your face,” and he had his cock in his hand and then he was re-entering, no pretense, no warning, shoving inside, making John shout, eyes flying open with the shock. Crying out with panting breath.

There was the burning sensation of fullness but the pain wasn’t like before because he’d been stretched ( _fucked_ ) open, and Sherlock sank into him, the softness of that place, the moist pink earthenworks of his body.

Sherlock’s mouth was on his, swallowing his breath, his sounds. John opened for him, mouth and body both, wet, Sherlock’s cool tongue flickering, licking into his mouth. He tasted something coppery, dark loamy earth underneath, again that perfumed scent of flowers drying. Metallic taste of lust in the back of his throat as Sherlock began to rock into him once more.

Sherlock’s tongue, his cock, plunging into him at the same time. His tongue was sliding in, slippery, caressing the soft pink velvet of John’s tongue, exploring his mouth. And then more of it, and still more, it was completely filling up his mouth, it seemed to lick the back of his throat. It slithered in like a    black     serpent, it seemed to push in, all the way down his throat, sliding down,   down,    to his insides, to lap at his organs, and John couldn’t breathe,     he couldn’t breathe

( _taste of_ d _eep dark earth and blood)_ Scream, _(choking up his throat)_     tried to scream and he could not, the sound   ( _dripping out his mouth_ ) muffled, vibrating around Sherlock’s tongue,     scream trapped inside his head, in   his    head-

 

“John,” Sherlock was murmuring, and John gasped suddenly, for air that he didn’t need, because he could always breathe. “You’re so sweet,” Sherlock was saying, and he was kissing him sweetly on his trembling mouth. Soft kisses, gentle press of lips together - there was nothing filling his throat - and Sherlock was petting him as he thrust in and out.

 

John choked back a sob, broken little half-sound. His head full of fog and confusion, and heat, and the way Sherlock was rubbing inside of him, in that place, made shockwaves of stimulation ripple through his body. Flicker of     something      _(there was something there,  a dark figure_ ),   only a shadow. Sherlock was making senseless noises of comfort but inside his body John felt raw, oversensitive, Sherlock’s hands upon him, gripping into him as he drove himself deeper, that scorching fullness inside of him that forced out soft small sounds of protest.

It was too much - too rough, too hard, too fast, too much. Pure sensation: not pleasure and not pain but rather some hot electric shock of feeling like all his nerves were exposed, his insides were exposed. Bucked on reflex, tried to pull away on reflex, wanted to struggle on instinct but he was pinned firmly in place, Sherlock above him and inside him and around him, the movements merciless.

Eyes squeezed shut. He could barely open them. When he did, looking at Sherlock was too much, made him feel even more; the dark blue intensity of his   ( _empty, black)_ hungry gaze. His mind was clouded, as if with fever. He could not speak, only sounds. Low, whining, plaintive, like a wounded animal. His lips felt strangely sore, linger of metallic taste on his tongue, lolling out,    ( _long, black_ )   red tongue, panting. The snap of hips ( _bone, white bone_ ) thudding against his flesh - Animalistic. Like he was being bred.

 

It made him feel used - no longer a boy but rather a vessel, insides pounded into pliant pink softness. Wet hole for the taking. ( _pink and red and red inside)_ Red juice dripping. He was lost, he was losing himself. This was sin, he’d given himself over to the licking flames of hellfire, his sins had found him out, and there was a cold scrape of sharpness over his skin like the dull edge of a knife.

 “ _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,_ ” his mouth was forming the words, or at least attempting to form the words, the shape of his name, like some kind of prayer or begging, it was impossible to tell which, praying or begging or pleading or maybe just crying. Sounds stuttering.   “ _Sh, Sh-”_  Or was that Sherlock shushing him, comforting him, but it was a sibilant sound,    _Sssssshhhhhh,_ like a hissing,  ( _thick black serpent_ ) like the broken radiator in church, it was so hot, he was so hot everywhere, when he opened his eyes his vision was blurry, blurring with - sweat? Tears?

 

Sherlock above him was only a shape in the dark. John tried to focus on his face and he couldn’t. And was Sherlock so quiet; eerily    silent.   The only sounds in the room were the sounds John was making, his little animal sounds, the hiccuping breaths, the sick solid smacking of flesh together on impact again and again. Sherlock was not speaking or moaning or panting, he was dead silent, he was not panting, no sound  of  breath, no   breath-

_(and empty coffins  and   empty   graves_ )

Only the long pulls in and out of him, the relentless thrusting. Suddenly he saw -

Sherlock staring down at him, dead silent

_(dead)_

the look in his eyes reptilian, unblinking, there was-

( _something   blurred_ )

John couldn’t look, couldn’t focus on it, like looking at the edges of a film as if the camera had lost focus there, and it was so pale, white, skin so white, no, not white but

colorless

( _bloodless  )_

And underneath his hands and all around him and inside of him Sherlock’s skin and flesh was so cold, so cold, as if it was  

( _dead flesh_ )

Couldn’t think, couldn’t finish a thought, and the thrusting wasn’t slowing down, it was merciless. Crimson blooming in his mind, and heat all inside his body, thought of, ( _churches burning)_ a voice in his head, calling his name _John_ in the night, thought of ( _dog split open there was no blood)_ a voice in his head, in his head, calling _John_ it was inside   his  head - Saliva filled his mouth. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Fluttering terror of a trapped animal; in his body this invasion, impaling, savage movements, ruined, he was being ruined and

Sherlock’s skin and flesh was so cold, so cold, it was

                     Dead.

Skin stretched tight over bone, faceless thing with a black hole for an open mouth and dripping teeth _teeth_ dripping fangs and black tongue and Teeth sinking into his throat, and John was thrashing, wet gush of blood and shrieking animal terror  and up in the core of his body like a hammer was the pounding of intense sickening pleasure, he was spilling out white splatter and thin fluid in helpless spasms a gush of wet inside of him, so much wet tried to scream, tried, and in his mouth the taste of blood,  blood-

 

 

And then nothing.  

 

              No pain,   no   fear.  

 

       Only awe,     and  a  deep  sense  of  completion.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [one way or another.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOCDUQ2zuXE)


	22. Chapter 22

 

**MISSING: JOHN HAMISH WATSON**

  


_DESCRIPTION: white, 5’2, blonde hair, blue eyes, slim build, fair complexion, slight tan, no obvious scars. Last seen leaving school wearing red sweater and white thin blue checked collared shirt, brown shoes._

        Taken from his home Monday night. The front door was locked from the inside. There are no signs of forced entry. Mother was working a night shift at the local Sweethaven town hospital. Sister was purported to be at a friend’s house the night of the disappearance. Father does not live with family; whereabouts unknown.

       John is described by his mother to be a polite, rule-abiding boy. A good student, with healthy interest in sports.

      Searches in the woods surrounding the Watson residence at 10 Chelmsford Street have turned up nothing thus far. Neighbors state that they have not noticed anything out of the ordinary.

       Citizens are reminded to lock up your doors and windows at night.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _promise I'll never let you go._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_DlMHoOZ4Qg)
> 
>  
> 
> roll end credits:
> 
> Thank you so much to prettyarbitrary for the last-minute beta!! all my love and hopeless devotion to Archia, for all the hand-holding, the hair-stroking, reassurances, murmurs of love, and the late-night inspiration...
> 
> Thank you to all of you who accompanied me on this journey and made it so fun and entertaining along the way!! Your encouragement bolstered me and I'm endlessly grateful for all your support! 
> 
> see you all next time.....


End file.
